


An Imperial Holiday

by RedHammer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dorian is a Good Friend, Drama, F/M, Minrathous is an interesting city, No one pines like an Elvhen, Past Female Lavellan/Solas, Post-Trespasser, Romance, Swish parties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5547911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHammer/pseuds/RedHammer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Lavellan, greatly reduced in power after the disintegration of the Inquisition, is invited to address the Tevinter Senate. But she is not the only former Inquisition member heading north... A post-Trespasser story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_ 8442 Melana'arlathan - 9:45 Dragon, 2nd day of Harvestmere _

_I have decided, in the tradition of the Vir Dirthara, to record this world before it passes. There is no one else I can entrust with the task. I have no desire to entrust it. I will honour this time and its young civilisations as best I can. There is nothing more I can do, except remember._

_Today, on the road north, I saw a human boy fall off a wagon. The driver of the cart was whipping the horses beyond their limits. The brute cursed and spat on the beasts while they shrieked, flanks foaming and striped with blood. The boy was thrown from the cart when the horses reared. He cut his knee on a stone, but stood and entreated the driver to stop. He put out his arm and saved the horses from a blow, crying "Don't hurt them, papa!" The man switched to whipping the boy instead._

_He found the cord winding itself around his throat, tightening like a hungry snake. His eyes bulged as he choked, dying in terror. But the boy climbed up and tried to save the man, tears wetting down his filthy cheeks as he pulled uselessly on the cord with all his strength. I let the whip fall._

_I think that's what she would have done._

~

"What's this, then?" the lout slurred. He straightened from where he'd bent over to piss down the stable wall. His mates, slouched against the outside of the tavern, giggled in gurgly unison. "I do believe it's a rabbit riding a horse, lads!" he cried, spreading his arms to his audience as if to receive their praise for his insight. There were peals of laughter in response, frothy ales sloshing over their rims.

She headed her grey paint into the stable with a gentle tap on the ribs. Dismounting, she threw the reins over the saddle and let the horse nose into a water trough.

"Where'd you steal that fine mare then, rabbit?" The drunk sauntered over, gait wobbly and arms still held wide.

She remained silent. She stepped easily around the lead drunk, but found her path up the tavern steps blocked by his cronies.

"No, no, we don't let your kind in here." The man came up behind her, standing too close and leaning to growl in her ear. Fetid, beer-soaked fumes rolled off him in waves. "Now, why don't you be a good little wench and tell me where you stole that horse?" he breathed.

She turned her face away, swallowing a retch and weighing her options. The last thing she wanted was stories spreading of a free elf starting a fight outside a human tavern, not less than a week out from Minrathous. That would be an excellent way to find herself gaining unwanted attention from the slaver gangs operating up and down the Imperial Highway. Perhaps it was best to bear out unpleasant shemlens until she was through the gates, she decided.

"Could you tell me where I can find somewhere that does serve elves, ser?"

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. A hand gripped her shoulder with punishing strength, turning her abruptly and putting her inches away from a glowing red nose and blackened teeth.

"Uppity little knife-ear, ain't she? Answer me question!" The demand was drawn out as his tone rose in pitch and indignation. Flecks of froth landed on her chin, and she drew the back of her glove over her face to mop it up.

His eyes narrowed to a squint. "Don't you look down on me, filth. All us lot shed our blood fer you in the Blight. If it weren't fer us -"

"Are you Grey Wardens?" she interrupted with a note of genuine surprise.

He huffed, and spat on the ground near her feet. "Don't you dare compare good, honest Fereldans with them."

"We're soldiers of the greatest general who ever drew breath," one of the cronies answered. "Loghain Mac Tir. Rightful king of Ferelden." They all nodded firmly.

"Curse the bastard Theirin an' all his blood," her interrogator added, the words pronounced in a single slurred string. "So don't you go thinking you're all high and mighty on your fine horse." He pushed her in what she guessed was supposed to be an intimidating display but the ale ensured was little more than a nudge. He stumbled backwards.

Keeping her eyes aside so as not to stare, she looked him up and down. Patched, ragged clothes. Spots on the skin from years spent deep in a bottle. Army boots worn threadbare. All in all, a sad collection of signs that the best of his life was well behind him.

"I've heard of General Loghain," she tried tentatively. "Hero of the River Dane. He was the one who drove the Orlesians out of Denerim."

The leader of the pack puffed himself up a little. "Aye, that's him. Finest commander a man could ask fer."

She reached for her coin pouch. "Well, I've not much to spare, but..." She fished out three coins. "My mother's Fereldan. Have a round in honour of the General."

The cronies were convinced. They began crowing and cheering in drunken sways. It seems she still had the knack of knowing the right lies to tell.

But the leader was a little more wary. "Where's a knifey wench get a coin pouch from then, eh?" Despite the protest, he plucked the coins up with sweaty fingers.

"Stole it from my master when I took off with his horse." She smiled.

He grumbled, and allowed himself to be steered back into the orange glow of the tavern with his friends' arm over his shoulder. On the crest of the steps, he turned back. "Down past the signpost, on the right," he mumbled, barely intelligible. The heavy door of the pub slammed, and she was back in the dark.

She mounted her mare once more, patting her withers. Hammered iron and filigree shaped into fingers glinted where a left hand should be, and for a brief second it glowed with runes.

"Just a bit longer," she told her horse.


	2. Chapter 2

_ 8442 Melana'arlathan - 9:44 Dragon, 5th day of Harvestmere _

_We have moved into the territory known now as the Free Marches. Establishing the new eluvians has been slow work, but fruitful._

_There was a young elf in our camp today who had fled servitude in the Imperium. When he was a small child, his clan had been raided for slaves and he among those snatched away. He made his escape from Minrathous along with several others thanks to my agents. They are all gaunt, half-starved, pitiful creatures. They cannot look others in the eye._

_This boy wandered among the Dalish clansmen who have joined the cause, speaking his birth name in a small voice. He was ignored by most; they seemed to find it difficult to look upon a 'flat-ear' so broken._

_One older man stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. He was joined by a woman, tears welling in her eyes as she clutched a carved wooden medal. Sylaise's markings. The boy turned, and seeing the medal, reached out with shivery fingers to feel the grooves. "Hahren?" he whispered. The woman nodded, and enfolded the boy in her arms. I watched his eyes from over her shoulder. Dead and still, but he gripped her clothes until his knuckles were bloodless._

~

She parted regretfully with her horse in the stables of the elven hostel the lout had pointed out, leaving her to the publican in exchange for two nights rest, fresh travel tack and a handful of coin. The altercation with the humans and the looks she received on the village roads made it painfully clear how rare an elf owning property was north of the Waking Sea. With nothing but her travelling sack, weapons, and cloak, she set out on the Highway for the City of Argent Spires.

That had been six days ago. Keeping her ears and hand hidden had resulted in surprisingly little harassment. Patrols of soldiers had started appearing on the roads between the smaller farming villages, chests emblazoned with the sigil of the Tevinter Militis. She'd had fears of being recognised, but her rough travelling clothes and the walking stick she'd whittled on the second day made her indistinguishable from the many backwoods pilgrims flowing into the city in search of a better life. The black-helmed guards gave her nothing more than passing glances.

In the afternoon of the sixth day, every callus on her heels hard and sore, the smell of the sea rose up on the wind. Tilled fields and meadows were giving way to motley dwellings, some permanent, some clearly erected by desperate refugees denied access to the city. The lean-tos closest to the road were populated by merchants of every stripe. Almost all were human, although a few dwarves plied 'genuine Orzammar' wares. Lingering at the back of every stall was a silent elf, heaving sacks or wrapping parcels. Some bore the vallaslin. _Slaves twice over,_ she thought. The sight of them pressed on her mind like an axe under a grindstone.

And then, on the horizon, the tip of a black spire appeared. As she walked on, it was joined by another, and then half a dozen. They split the sky like a jagged black hand reaching up from the ocean. A drawbridge as wide as a field and constructed with beams as thick as barrels loomed at the termination of the road, waves roaring on the rocks below. Dark copper chains streaked with green held the bridge aloft. As she crossed, the crowd around her thickened. She had never seen such a press of people, even in the busiest arrondissements of Val Royeaux. Carriages with polished oak wheels trundled past day labourers covered in muck returning from the farms, while mage students dressed in the robes of their academies called to each other over the small bands of soldiers returning from patrol. All were trailed by homeless, desperate elven families, holding rags together over their shoulders as they steered children through the crowd.

She wove her way into the throng, unseen and silent. Just another elf pushed inexorably through the gates of Minrathous.

Her luck slipping in without incident proved to be short-lived. Finding the address Dorian had provided was not the simple task she'd assumed it would be. Minrathous was a warren of densely packed houses and sloping cobblestone streets, winding up and down and back in on itself like a knot of mating eels. The smell was about the same too, thanks to the slurry of rotting fishbones, vinegar wine and other things she'd rather not identify running in the stone gutters. She'd managed to discover no less than three separate market squares within ten minutes of the drawbridge, all indistinguishable from the other except in the quality of the goods. Those nearer the gates were clearly there to prey on the wide-eyed traveller, shadowed by the towering greystone buildings for the first time. She'd twisted some nimble fingers away from her coin pouch already; the culprits melting into an alley with bare, pattering feet and a high-pitched giggle.

Circling the first municipium over and over was yielding nothing but frustration. Her bearings kept failing her, and she longed for a decently tall tree to climb. Once night fell, she could use the stars to help keep her orientation, but she'd never set foot in a city so vast or so fond of complicated, meandering paths. A city designed by thirty different opinions on what a city should be, was her overwhelming impression.

As the afternoon edged into dusk, the merchants began totting up the day's takings and commanding slaves to haul goods back to a nearby warehouse district for the night. She felt a twinge of desperation. Her hand required magical powering to function, and it had been far too long since she'd seen a friendly mage. It hung uselessly under her cloak, barely able to form a fist. The thought of spending her first night in a city known for its black market slave trade on the street with one hand a dead weight was not a pleasant one. For the hundredth time, she re-read Dorian's note.

_"My friend,_

_The Senate convenes in a month to discuss the renewed Qunari threat. If there is any chance of convincing these over-stuffed fools that our dearest elven madman is a bigger problem, it's then. By some miracle, the Lucerni has twisted enough arms to get you an invitation to address the Upper House. Please come, if only to prevent me from dousing the lot in brandy and serving them well-charred with plums for Saturnalia._

_Ever your most terrible Tevinter,_

_Magister Dorian Pavus."_

Below, he'd left an address with little in the way of physical directions, aside from 'north of the largest, smelliest canal'. Not terribly useful considering she'd seen nothing remotely resembling a canal, large or otherwise.

She turned down another alley, convinced she'd managed to walk a circle for the umpteenth time that day. This little strip was off the arterial roads, with dirt packed underfoot instead of cobblestones. Taverns and brothels lined the street, and several workers were outside lighting the sconces for evening trade. As she had many times already while the daylight dwindled, she toyed with the idea of asking for directions, but wariness kept her pacing uneasily at a distance. She knew the chance of being recognised so far north was small, but there was no one to call on here. No outpost or fortress to retreat to if things turned dire. Caution was her last defense now.

The clink of tankards and the crackle of torches filled the lane as the servers blew out their tapers and returned to drawing pints. The first drunken roar of the evening echoed somewhere above her head. A burly group of dwarves appeared behind her, nudging her none too gently aside and grumbling, all bearing tattoos of the Casteless. She slipped into a gap between two dingy pubs, deciding to wait until the crowds were drawn into the depths of the warm buildings.

And felt something cool on her neck.

"Don't move, Inquisitor," a voice whispered from the gloom.

She went still. A light touch on the blade, angled downwards. Someone a little shorter than her. A knife hung on her belt, and she cursed herself a thousand times over when she realised she'd forgotten to move it closer to her right hand as her left lost its dexterity over the day.

"Who are you?" she asked, very slowly moving her right hand up towards her waist.

"Never you mind that." A woman's voice. No, she corrected herself, a girl. Definitely not Tevene. The blade wobbled slightly, as though the holder had taken a deep, steadying breath. Not a professional killer, then. Perhaps the knife wasn't necessary after all.

"Why do you call me by that name?" She moved her weight back onto her heels, one foot silently placed behind the other for a quick turn.

"That's who you are, Inquisitor. Every true elvhen knows your name. Knows you're working against our cause." Ah. She should have guessed. Another one of his recent 'converts'.

"Then you'll know I don't use that title anymore."

"I know, but I- I still think of you as- as the-"

With a fluid, almost invisible motion, she snaked her hand up to grip the wrist holding the blade. There was a gasp of surprise as she turned herself under the arm and faced her assailant. The girl shook herself free in a panicky spasm, and stumbled back a few steps.

It was her turn to suck in a surprised breath. She realised why the voice had seemed vaguely familiar. It was the same elf that Cassandra had posted by her bedside after her first attempt to seal the Breach had left her unconscious, all those years ago. She'd seen the girl at Skyhold a few times afterwards, usually holding an armful of laundry, always bobbing quickly and scurrying off with eyes down.

There was fear shining in her eyes now as she held the knife at arms length, waving it as though it was a torch and she was shooing rats.

"Stay back!" she cried, voice cracking. "Don't come closer, or by the Creators I'll- I'll stick you!"

The Inquisitor held up her right hand in a placating gesture. "I'm not drawing my blade. I'm not going to hurt you."

She didn't seem convinced. "Don't! Don't come any closer!" Her voice was shrill. She wondered how she'd managed to strike this much fear into the hearts of those who'd served under the Inquisition without trying. Had she truly been such a demonic presence? How did it manage to escape her notice all that time that some of the lower orders had thought of her this way - a league apart from how she saw herself?

The girl took another step back deeper into the alley – and managed to land squarely on the foot of a dwarf exiting a tavern by a side door. Her heel crushed the toes of his boot and he swore loud enough to wake his ancestors. His Casteless tattoo was crisscrossed with pox scars and deep gashes that suggested he knew his way around a blade far more intimately than her would-be attacker.

The quivery elf swung around to face him, still brandishing her knife, and the Inquisitor had the moment of premonition that had become all too familiar. The heat you saw in an animal's eyes before they leapt at you. The tension in someone's shoulder before he reached for his sword. Things were about to get ugly.

The dwarf's eyes narrowed. The girl, flustered and off-balance, fell towards him blade first. The Inquisitor shouted a warning, moving forward to catch her. But the dwarf was faster. With a strength that came from a chest muscled like a bull, he grabbed the elf's delicate wrist and twisted the knife back towards her ribs. She was spared a fatal blow only by luck; the girl's other forearm had come up in a defensive reflex and the blade sank deep into the stringy flesh.

The Inquisitor moved in a practiced dance then, the steps as automatic as ever. With two sharp jabs to the throat and an elbow across the bridge of the nose, the dwarf was napping on the ground. The girl had fallen against the brick wall, silent. She cradled her arm, staring down at the lodged knife as the cords of her neck bulged. The Inquisitor looked up and down the alley before putting a hand on her shoulder.

"Come on, we've got to go," she said quickly, attempting to pull her upright.

She looked up at her, eyes swimming in confusion. "Should I pull it out?" she asked in a shaky voice, fingertips touching the handle.

"No!" the Inquisitor said firmly, pushing her hand away. "Leave it be for now."

"It hurts," the girl whispered, eyebrows knotting and mouth falling open.

"I know." The Inquisitor gave up encouraging her to walk under her own power, and looped an arm over her undamaged side. "But we've got to leave before his friends come out here and find us." She began steering them out of the alley, eyes darting the length of the street for more Casteless.

"There's... there's blood," the younger elf whispered. The Inquisitor chanced a look down at the wound; blood was seeping steadily from the edges but it didn't look like she'd shattered a bone. A memory from her hours of fruitless wandering surfaced; a small clinic near the last street of shops she'd visited.

"Come on." The tavern street was clear. She set a brisk pace, throwing her cloak over the other girl's shoulders. No way to hide they were elves now, curse it all. _One problem at a time,_ she reminded herself.

"I can't," she whimpered. "It hurts. It hurts ever so much, Inquisitor-"

"Hush," she interrupted her. "Don't use that title. And you're an agent for Fen'Harel now, aren't you? You're a brave protector of Elvhenan."

Unshed tears wobbled precariously on the girl's eyelashes, but she nodded. Privately, the Inquisitor wondered how Fen'Harel could justify such poor use of his agents. He knew better than most how badly this child would have fared if she'd pressed her attack and forced her to defend her life. If he was going to set a tail on her, he should be letting battle-hardened soldiers take that risk, not raw recruits.

They cleared the end of the street with no more sight of dwarves, and to her endless relief, the lamps outside the clinic across the square were burning.

"Keep your head down and don't say anything," she whispered to the smaller elf. There were only stragglers still in the market, mostly shopkeepers locking their doors for the night. A few heads picked up as they passed but no one challenged them.

The girl gripped her limp arm and sniffled, leaning heavily on her shoulder. Reaching the clinic door, the Inquisitor knocked firmly.

The door swung open, flooding the step with lamplight. A human woman with hair pulled into a severe bun stood in the doorway. She was clad in a white apron with huge pockets filled with medical tools. They were appraised with a cold, steel eye.

"Excuse me, my friend here needs help. We- "

"Don't treat slaves here," the woman said with a voice like flint. The nurse turned on her heel to reach for the door jamb.

"Please!" She used her boot to keep the door open. "We're not slaves. She need stitches and clean bandages- "

"Alienage is half hour that way." The woman pointed somewhere out into the night. Her foot was kicked away, and the door slammed shut. They were doused in blackness.

The Inquisitor indulged in a moment of seething.

"I feel like I might fall down." The girl's voice was faint. The skin on her neck and cheeks had turned pale. Her brow was clammy, and the temperature of the arm under her hand was falling.

"Tell me your name, lethallan," she said, mind skimming over possibilities. She still had no idea precisely where they were in city. Still some distance from Dorian's house, that was certain. Could she carry her to the alienage? Probably not, with one dead arm. And they couldn't pose as a more tempting target for the muggers or slavers who were no doubt beginning their evening rounds.

"Naddie," the girl said, leaning into the Inquisitor's chest, eyes drooping slightly. "I'm Naddie. Am I going to die?"

The Inquisitor laughed with a little overplayed confidence, and squeezed her shoulder. "Absolutely not. You're going to be the picture of health in a week with only a scar to prove it ever happened." She smiled down at her, and received a watery smile in return.

Naddie adjusted her arm and accidentally jostled the knife's handle. She cried out in pain, eyes squeezing shut.

Need forced a solution on her. Well, this was going to be a difficult sell.

"Naddie," she said, ducking her head slightly to look directly in the girl's eyes. "Do you want me to take you to the alienage?"

She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head.

"Do you have friends somewhere nearby, then? Did you come here as part of a cell?"

"Well..." she paused, worrying her lip. "I'm really not- that would be wrong of me to tell you. Wouldn't it?" She seemed to be genuinely asking.

"Not if it means you don't have to walk through these streets at night, and if your superiors are any sort of decent people, they'll agree," the Inquisitor said, hoping she sounded convincing considering it had been about five minutes since the girl had a knife at her throat.

Either through naivety or blood loss, Naddie seemed to acquiesce. "I don't know what a cell is, but... there were a whole group of us who came into the city two nights ago," she got out nervously. "My job was just to watch from the alley for the guardsmen patrols. When I saw it were you out the front of the tavern, I just thought I could - Oh, they're going to be fearful angry with me!" The tears threatened to overflow again.

Well, that explained the inexperienced assault at least. "Show me where to take you," the Inquisitor replied, running a comforting hand over her shoulder. "And we'll get you some help."

With a shaky finger, Naddie pointed to an unassuming two-storey greybrick on the other side of the square. There were curtains drawn over the upper windows, but lamplight clearly shone from inside.

She shook her head. All day, she'd been wandering right under their noses.

"I don't know, Inquisitor. I really don't know if we should!" Poor Naddie was nearly beside herself as they began making their way back across the open space.

"Don't worry, da'len. We'll just say you captured me." She hoped it would make the young girl laugh, but she was too busy trembling and biting her lip.

"I'm goin' to be in such hot water, I know it," she fretted, mumbling under her breath.

They reached the front door. The Inquisitor knocked again. There was silence for a few moments, then the rattle of a lock being pulled free. The bare-faced elven man who opened the door wasn't familiar, and she hoped that meant he hadn't served in the Inquisition.

_"Ar melana dirthavaren, revas vir anaris._ I've got a wounded agent here," she said brusquely, hoping he'd decide it wasn't the time to ask too many questions. After a moment, he gestured silently towards the stairs. She gave him a nod as they passed. Naddie had begun hiccuping silent sobs.

As they neared the top of the flight, the warmth of a roaring fire washed down on their heads. Floorboards creaked, voices murmured. Someone chuckled. She wasn't sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she heard the clink of a chess piece. _Ah yes,_ she thought as the memories flooded her. _This is what he gives them now._ Like-minded people to spend your evenings with, and take watch when you needed to sleep. Belonging to a cause. All the things she'd once given the Inquisition, and the Inquisition had given her.

They rounded the top of the stairs.

_"Aneth ara,_ " she greeted the room. About twenty elves of all ages, clans and gender stopped what they were doing and stared. Two or three rose to their feet with a gasp, knocking over stools. 

"Who's that-"

"Naddie?"

"It's the Inquisitor! It's the bloody Inquisitor, you idiots!"

In very short order, herself and the now dangerously slumped Naddie had several arrowheads trained on their chests.

_"Ha'ma'in!_ Be calm!" She used the tone of voice she'd usually reserved for knocking new recruits down a few pegs. "I mean no harm to any of you. Your comrade was injured in the street, she needs..."

A door flung open on the other side of the room, and within it the firelight caught a swathe of grey-brown fur. It moved, putting a hand on the shoulder of an archer, pushing him roughly, almost desperately aside. And he appeared, his face a frozen mask of shock.

He was dressed far more simply than their last meeting. The wolf pelt was belted over his old homespun tunic. The soft leather footwraps he used to wear whenever he was padding around Skyhold. A book fell open in his other hand, pages flapping. For a brief moment out of time and sanity, she thought she'd just disturbed him from an alcove in the library while they'd both been searching for evening reading.

She felt the pressure of the room change, as though she'd been suddenly dunked in a deep, cold pool. There was a blossom – an explosion, maybe - of some strong feeling that didn't quite have a name, somewhere around her stomach. She was sure her expression was a mirror of his own, but a whimper from Naddie helped her recover first.

"She needs... your agent needs help," she managed to get out, voice lined with gravel.

He finally spoke. "Lower your arrows." His voice was weak and stunned, as though he'd just taken a hard blow. When some of the archers seemed reluctant to comply, he stepped forward. "Lower them _now._ " Every bowstring relaxed, every dagger went back into its sheath. She noticed more than one hand still hovering near their scabbards, however.

"Why are you - " he began incredulously, moving towards her. Oh, Mythal's mercy, she could smell his scent. His warmth.

"After she's been seen to, Solas," she interrupted. She hoisted Naddie a little higher. "She needs the wound staunched and dressed."

Solas looked over his shoulder, nodding to a woman in a corner with wispy, greying hair. She approached, taking Naddie from her side and laying her on a small couch in front of the fire. The room was all bustle then, the healer calling for various poultices and tools while others gathered round to watch her work a glowing ball of healing magic over the wound, rapidly quizzing the poor, half-conscious girl about what had happened.

When Naddie's weight was taken from her, she felt an extraordinary wave of exhaustion take its place. She bent over, bracing her hands on her thighs.

"Would you –" He paused to clear his throat. "You should sit a moment," Solas said.

"I'm not sure that's wise," she replied, risking a glance about the room. Suspicious eyes lined every wall.

"And I am sure it is," he countered firmly. He pulled a nearby stool away from under a table. "Please, sit."

Despite her misgivings and despite a part of her mind still reeling at their unexpected meeting, or perhaps because of it, she sat. Or more accurately, collapsed. Her hand clunked on the edge of the stool.

Her mind buzzed alive with questions - why in all of Thedas was he _here,_ the last place she'd predicted he'd move? There was no other city in Thedas that better embodied the crushing degradation of the elves, true. But his plans had never been to save the elves of this time from their plight. Why was the leader of the rebellion risking exposure? Her gut tightened. None of the scenarios she'd polished up during her month of travel had accounted for this.

He kneeled in front of her. He was close enough that she could watch the scar between his eyebrows contract in concern.

"Is any of this blood yours?" he asked quietly. She looked down, not realising the extent Naddie had bled down the front of her cloak. Before she could answer in the negative, he'd slipped past the open ties and pressed tentative fingers to the front of her travelling jerkin. She was too tired, and let him have his way as he carefully, clinically felt her ribs. His hand was as warm as a coal.

"I expected to hand Naddie over to her camp, not her commander," she said cautiously over his arm. "I'm… surprised to see you." She congratulated herself on the spectacular understatement.

"I go where I am needed," he replied vaguely, not looking up from his task. She knew it would be useless to press further.

His jaw was rigid as he moved her cloak to continue searching for wounds. "I'm alright, Solas." She reached up and circled his wrist with her right hand.

Their eyes met. Firelight played havoc on the side of his face as they silently breathed the same air. A moment of longing flashed through her like a electric charge. Oh, she'd missed him. She'd missed him so cruelly that some days it was a physical pain. How many months had it been since they'd parted in such terrible sorrow in front of that eluvian? Six, now? She needed to leave before she leaned forward, just a little distance, and put a kiss on his cheek.

"Very well." He turned his face away, removing his hand. His expression had the same closed, indecipherable look it had had every time she'd thought he'd been lingering a little close as she chose a book from a shelf, or knelt down to help her build a fire. Like he'd let himself indulge in weakness for a few moments too long.

He picked up her left hand instead, eyebrows raising in an unspoken question.

She smiled. "Dagna, of course. Her design entirely. I've got almost full range of motion, grip strength, precision. Some days I hardly notice the difference."

"Extraordinary," he murmured, turning it this way and that, testing the joints and hinges. "But it seems a little heavy."

"Well, it has one drawback. You see where it joins to my arm?" She rolled back her sleeve to demonstrate how the leather cuff fitted over her stump, secured by a harness looped over her shoulder. "She created a few runes to help it 'take direction', so to speak. But they're powered by magic and they've worn down. I haven't have a chance to -"

Before she could finish her sentence, the runes had sprung to life, glowing with an energy and strength she hadn't felt even when they'd been straight out of Dagna's forge. It was as if they were singing.

"They're as powerful as I could make without breaking them," Solas said, still examining her hand as if nothing had happened. "They should last a good while longer now."

She clenched and unclenched her hand. The motions felt as light and easy as air, but strong enough to put a hole through an oak door.

"Solas, you didn't have to -" she protested.

"It was not a great labour, Inquisitor."

She smiled ruefully. "I'm sure you know that I don't bear that title anymore."

He gently placed her hand back in her lap. "You are, and will always be, the Inquisitor," he said, in an undertone that could only be meant for her ears. He lowered his eyes to somewhere between her feet, exhaling a long, quiet breath. Another silence stretched out between them.

As she watched the top of his head, she wondered how that body could possibly be made of flesh. The same flesh of a man she'd known as opinionated, quick tempered and almost certainly a snob in some respects. But had also spent patient hours debating her theories on the significance of a old elvhen painting on the wall of a Dales cave. Who had walked the battlements alone on cold winter mornings with nothing but an apple for company, watching Skyhold come to life. A man who'd spent weeks wrestling with his own artworks, frowning at a sketchbook on horseback. Who'd silently left hangover recoveries on Bull's bedroll even after a long day of political loggerheads. She'd seen the grief-stricken tears in his eyes when his wise friend succumbed, even as it pleaded to free him of guilt.

How could this mortal body, this difficult, frail, moral, wonderful man, house plans so incomprehensibly monstrous that they were beyond her sight?

The spell was broken when the healer wandered over, the back of a bloodied hand pressing on her brow. "Well, she's patched up as good as she's going to be for now. She needs an elfroot and laurel infusion in the morning, but she'll be right as rain in a few days."

Solas stood, hands folding behind his back. "It seems we owe you another debt, Inquisitor," he said formally, voice a normal volume again.

She stood. "You owe me nothing, Solas," she said, occupying herself with adjusting her cloak and raising her hood. To the healer, she added - "Thank you for looking after Naddie. She was always a decent girl and seems eager to prove herself. I hope she finds her place here."

The older woman just nodded, expression grave as she wiped her hands on her apron. Something sank inside her when she thought about the toil this good, honest woman gave to Fen'Harel's cause. Did she know she worked for the destruction of the Veil, and what it would mean? Did she, like him, see no alternative future for the elves?

She patted her pocket to check for Dorian's note. Still there. A glance to the fireside saw Naddie bandaged, wrapped up in a wool blanket and already asleep.

"I'll take my leave," she said, half to herself and half to the room. She took the first step back down the stairs, her eyes passing over Solas' only for a fraction of a moment. She knew lingering any longer ran risks of all kinds.

"Wait!" His voice made the whole room freeze in surprise. Herself, most of all. He seemed unsure of how to go on now he had her attention again, mouth opening and closing for a moment.

"Inquisitor, could you - " He turned to look at the doorway leading to the room he'd just exited. "Hold just a moment?" he asked, a hand raised even as he began moving away.

She nodded mutely.

In the months it took for the Inquisition to trickle away, she'd walked the echoing, empty halls of her stronghold and gave the matter of their connection careful thought. She'd concluded that yes, she'd simply been a pleasant way of passing time while he'd been weakened. Not for a moment would she accuse him of light-heartedness, but ultimately their bond was an unwanted distraction from duty.

After all, they'd known each other only a few years and spent a meagre eight months of that time in each other's company; a drop in the ocean of his lifespan. She would be a fond footnote, to be taken out and examined at some later date when he was nostalgic for his short time among the aliens of this age. She could see how the pieces fit together. It made a horrifically painful sense, and she was, above all other things, sensible.

So one day she'd permitted herself herself the luxury of locking the doors to the emptied rotunda, huddling rather pathetically on the floor, and letting the loneliness swarm her. She'd wept bitterly for a whole day and night, staring up at his final, half-finished painting as her broken heart drained away like a lingering wound that had been lanced. Then she'd rolled up her sleeves, took inventory of her resources, and begun her work against him in earnest. She'd convinced herself that the matter was settled, and that it was easier to think of him as nothing but a disconnected demi-god cast into a future he couldn't understand, not the elf she'd known.

She hoped her convictions held.

Solas returned to the room, and she watched as all eyes followed his progress. Murmurs rose from the corners. It seemed not everyone had known their illustrious commander was acquainted with the demonic Inquisitor.

He was holding a small cloth bundle. "Here, take this," he said, pressing it into her hands. It was as light as a bird's wing, and clinked when her metallic hand touched it. Unwrapping a corner of the cloth, she saw what appeared to be a sealed glass straw, about the length and circumference of her finger. It was glowing green from a mote of light trapped inside.

Seeing her confusion, he hurried to elaborate. "It's a magical signal. Snap it, and I will know where you are within Tevinter borders."

She looked down at the device. "I can't accept this, Solas," she said, shaking her head. She doubted he'd earnestly try to kill her outright, but she was certain he wasn't above keeping her out of the way for a while, if she was proving too great an annoyance. It could be a trap waiting to be sprung.

To her frustration, she had to admit that's all she'd amounted to thus far when it came to his great mission; an annoyance. And even that description was generous. She was all but a lone operator these days and she was certain he knew that.

He seemed to sense her thoughts. "This is not a danger to you. I swear it," he said. Was she imagining it, or was his tone a little wounded? "Elves are never safe in Minrathous. It is a gift. Use it as you see fit." He turned his head to the side and pursed his lips slightly.

It was such a mortal gesture and so like the Solas she'd known that she couldn't help it. She laughed. He looked at her again and the corner of his mouth lifted for just a moment. Some of the pain in his eyes faded.

She wrapped the tube back up securely and put it in a trouser pocket. "Very well. I'll use it wisely. Thank you."

His expressions were never writ large on his face, but she had to say he looked pleased. Even a little relieved. Another thought struck her, and she decided to press her luck.

"I don't suppose I could trouble you for a map?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter soon! Comments are not only ego boosting, but a tremendous tool in improving my writing. Please, tell me what you liked or didn't - it's all invaluable and I treasure the effort of anyone who leaves a review. Some feedback suggested I clarify the journal entries from the main story, so I changed the formatting, but just in case - the parts at the beginning of the chapter in italics are Solas. Everything underneath is written from the Inquisitor's perspective.


	3. Chapter 3

_8442 Melana'arlathan - 9:45 Dragon, 16th day of Harvestmere_

_I promised myself I would not use this record for my own means. This was to be an impartial, historical witness, but I must break that promise. My thoughts are scattering at a touch. She was_ here. _So close that I actually touched her, not as a disguised phantom sliding through layers of dreams, but as a man, with my own hand. I never dreamed our paths would cross accidentally in this ugly city, or indeed ever again. I was prepared for that, I thought. Friendship, comrades, or anything else; I was content without them before the Breach. I convinced myself that returning to that state of contentment was not a hardship. As ever, I'm proven a fool._

_There is so much I nearly told her and it is frightening how easy it would have been. Many days, I picture Fen'harel's rebellions steered under her hand. She always knew herself with such surety that I often long for the pleasure of turning to ask if this order was foolish or that one was wasteful. I watched her plot troop movements with the same instinctive confidence she deconstructed those durgen'len puzzle boxes Varric was always supplying. Even without armies moving at her command, she is the brilliant strategic mind of her Age._

_Meeting by surprise gave me no chance to prepare, to compose myself, and I came dangerously close to throwing out all prudence and asking her to stay. For what, even now I'm not sure. Only tonight have I realised that six months has been a painful trial of endurance, as were the two years before it. She is just as she ever was, even as the world shifts on its fundamentals. The thoughtless, boundless compassion that would carry a wounded enemy back to their territory without hesitation. The serious and pragmatic nature that conceals a quiet, subtle wit. Her steadying confidence, her understated beauty, her unassuming humility, her patient curiosity, her earnest passion, her easy grace. Her iron will in the face of the impossible._

_In this Age, she is a light wandering a dull, empty desert. She is a flower blooming unseen on an unscalable cliff. She is the most eminent of art displayed only to the blind and indifferent. My heart is overflowing in foolish sentiment and I can barely prevent the quill from filling pages with it._

_But I must harden my resolve. I have no claim on anything that grew from the barren earth I created. She will never understand my duty, nor do I want her to. I must lock these feelings away before they strip my purpose from me. I will not rest until my mistakes are undone. Those under my command have sacrificed too much._

_Elvhenan_ must _live again. My heartache is nothing to that._

~

"My dearest friend! The singular ray of sun in my otherwise tedious misery! Minrathous welcomes you!"

She sat bolt upright, all traces of sleep falling away in alarm. A moment of disorientation followed - where was she and why was it so dark?

Her mind caught up with her senses and filled in the missing information; she was in Dorian's front sitting room and it was morning at last. She'd spent a few tiring hours after departing the Fen'Harel cell making sure Solas hadn't slipped a tail on her, a real one this time. But either he hadn't or they were very good at their job, and after narrowly avoiding another roaming band of dwarves, she'd decided she'd seen enough of the local colour for one night. Thanks to her 'borrowed' map and the directions from a friendly elf who'd been sleeping under a canal bridge, she'd finally found her destination just as the moon was beginning to wane. There had been no answer when she'd pounded on the door, so she'd jimmied a window and crawled inside. Lacking the energy to do much else, she'd curled up on a lounge in front of the dying fireplace. Everything else could come after sleep.

As to why it was dark, she saw now that was because the room was… well, dark. Dark wood furniture, dark panelled walls, dark navy wallpaper stretching to the vaulted ceiling where, she discovered, there was a huge fresco of the Pavus family crest. A spidery chandelier made of wrought iron hung unlit, and the curtains remained drawn save a crack to admit a thin band of morning light, illuminating the dust specks.

"Bit dreary, isn't it?" A handsome man was descending a sweeping, curved staircase at the other end of the room, balustrade carved with twining thorns. "But that's Mother for you. She always did like to project her misery."

"Dorian!" she said with a happy laugh, rising to greet him with an embrace. Despite the early hour, he was perfectly groomed and smelling as impeccable as ever, a cologne of camphorwood and lemon dabbed under his jaw.

"Hello, dearest. Sorry for waking you but the servants were starting to wonder who the vagrant was in the parlour." He smiled at her with a warmth that made her truly at ease for the first time since she'd left the gates of Skyhold. "Got here alright, I see?"

Slightly embarrassed, she gestured to the window whose lock was hanging by one miserable hinge. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"You weren't answering the door," she offered somewhat lamely.

He took up her right hand and petted it. "Never mind that. Are you well - Maker's balls!"

She followed his eyes; he'd finally seen the state of her clothes, cloak now a rusty brown with Naddie's blood.

"Not mine," she hastened to assure him, holding her arms up to prove her point.

"Not yours? What the devil happened to you?" He started pulling on her cloak. "Don't tell me you've already been scrapping - wait." He caught her arm, forcing her to look at him. "Were you harassed by slavers? Because I'll send for the city guard right now -"

She shook her head. "Nothing like that, I promise."

"Then what?" he prodded. "Maker, I'm sure I don't want to know. Come on, off with this."

She grimaced as she shed her outer layer of clothes at his bidding. "As prescient as ever. No, I'm afraid you don't. Dorian -" she caught his gaze. "He's here."

"Who's here? The Ghost of Verimensis? The Arishok? " he answered flippantly, folding her filthy cloak over an arm.

She gave him a look.

He froze. "Oh no. No, you're pulling my leg now." His jaw fell open with disbelief. "He _can't_ be!"

"He can. I encountered one of his agents last night and then him by pure dumb luck," she explained. "They're here as a small cell, about twenty strong. I don't know how many other groups he's smuggled into the city."

He looked at her with a flash of hope. "Well, could we find where he's hiding, ferret them out?"

She shook her head. "No chance. He's moved them to another bolthole by now and there won't be a crumb left to follow." She sighed. "We can't forget he's been a rebel leader for longer than all our lives put together. He won't make mistakes like that."

Dorian groaned. "Bloody damned Fates take it all," he cursed. "This was the one place I thought we'd be safe to scheme against him. Walked bold as brass through the gates with the sunlight glinting off that ridiculous pate, no doubt."

She began to pace the polished marble. "I don't think we need to start rending our garments just yet," she said, tapping a finger to her lips. "Is the Upper House still set to hear the matter tomorrow?"

He nodded. "Ah, but I should warn you," he said in recollection, holding up a finger. "The Magisterium banquet also begins tomorrow evening. Nominally held to celebrate the first Senate sitting after the yearly recess, in actuality just a chance to show off the gowns everyone bought over the summer." He gave her an exaggerated simper. "You're invited as the Inquisitor, but…" His face grew serious again. "Many of them are out to prove Tevinter can push back the Qunaris without any help from the south. It's all nonsense from radicalists who think it's the first step towards a glorious new age of imperialism, but some of them have got all their political clout wrapped up in this mess. The last thing they want is the leader of a southern power, namely you, telling them that Tevinter might not have the right end of the stick this time. They'll want to make an example of you, and I don't know how yet. That worries me."

She tsked. "I think you know I can take a drubbing from a few over-stuffed fools." When that didn't ease the troubled crease on his forehead, she took his hand, dipping her head to look him in the eye. "Dorian, I'll be alright."

He rubbed an ear as he considered her thoughtfully. "Alright. Mulish as ever, but alright." He shook his head, and the matter seemed to be put to rest for the moment.

"Now," he said, usual twinkle in the eye back in place. "Let me show you Minrathous."

~

They had set out after she had bathed and dressed in the simple tunic and hose a silent house slave had laid out on her bed. The sight of the girl had shocked her, and she'd immediately questioned Dorian about her presence. He had only sighed, and said that he had offered to take the few slaves he had inherited from his father before a judge and have them declared Liberati, but they'd refused. It was a sad reality but often the life of a freed slave was harder, he had told her. At least under his roof they were guaranteed shelter, safety and food; three things hard to come by as an elf in Minrathous.

As they began strolling down the stately tree-lined avenue outside Dorian's house and then beyond, she saw the truth of his words painted in the starkest colours. Carriages with lacquered doors rattled over the cobblestones, bearing crests of the prominent mage families. The slaves driving the coaches or attending the humans strolling down the pavement were well-dressed, if thin. But there was a hunch in their shoulders, a quick sort of tension in their eyes, as though all were being harried by an invisible predator. She made a grim realisation; none more likely to fuel the blood magic of an ambitious political climber than the family slaves. She stared after them, a fire stoking in her belly. Not for the first time, she saw the world from Solas' point of view.

But there was still something to be said for the city that had birthed the human age of Thedas. There was scarcely a street they walked down that Dorian didn't have some historical tidbit to share, some magical fascination to excitedly describe. The buildings were preserved with loving care; towering libraries and crumbling forums hummed as they passed, unseen magic keeping them propped upright. Mint and parsley flowered on the windowsills of old greybrick facades, tilting toward the street with age. Greengrocers hawked the first of the orchard harvests under the watchful eye of Tevinter heroes immortalised in marble. A dulciateri sold bags of crumbled toffee for two bits to passing children as they slowed to watch buskers toss fireballs to each other through magically suspended rings. Apprentices gathered on the ancient carved fountains in Three Imperators' Square to spend their midday break playing dice while wolfing down their bread and cheese, as no doubt their ancestors had done for thousands of years.

And towering above it all, the Argent Spires stretching into the sky, casting their shadow over the last remnant of the Great Empire.

"What do you think?" Dorian declared, gesturing expansively to a street they had just turned down. "Not all eating babies and sacrificing southern virgins, you see?"

"There is far more to Minrathous than I ever knew," she confessed. Dorian was nearly glowing with pride.

"Not that there isn't room for improvement, as I think you'll agree," he went on, taking her arm. "But there is something here worth fighting for."

The Inquisitor watched the side of his face as it dropped into pensiveness. "Is the Lucerni making the progress you'd hoped?" she asked gently.

He gave her a weak smile. "Not even close." He drew her arm closer and sighed. "Makes me long for the good old days when we used to kill off the evil bastards. Now I attend their banquets."

She squeezed him above the elbow. "You _are_ doing good work here, Dorian. Don't let those who can't let go of the old ways convince you differently."

"Perhaps." He seemed to give himself a mental shake and treated her to a ravishing grin. "I knew you'd cheer me up. Now," he continued, consulting a pocket watch. "We've got time before supper to walk across town and visit the Archives. Well, the lower floors anyway. Those dusty old Tabularii would never give the likes of me access to the good stuff higher up. Still, the spire is magnificent. How does that sound?"

Her eyes widened. To step inside the great Archives of Minrathous... Even back with her clan, she'd heard tales of the indescribable treasures hidden in the vaults of the great museum. Artefacts from pre-Chantry and beyond. There were whispers that a letter written in Shartan's hand was preserved there, though the Chantry would never let it see the light of day.

"That sounds… I can't believe you didn't tell me earlier that the public could visit!" she said, for a moment reverting wholly to the Dalish girl who had kept and maintained her clan's meagre lot of books and relics as though she'd sworn sacred oaths. "All my life, I wanted to - of course, yes, let's go! Is it true the ironbark gauntlets of Garahel are kept there?" She began pulling him along as she strode out ahead.

Dorian laughed and then cleared his throat, eyes averted into an avenue heaving with people, filled with brightly coloured shops boasting elaborate signs. "Never seen those. But before that, I'm afraid we have to attend to an errand you won't like." He slowed his pace until she turned to face him. "You'll need a gown." His tone seemed to suggest he was telling her she'd need a kneecap broken.

Her stomach did twist a little. Unbidden, memories rose of Leliana armed with wicked silver pins as she stood on a stool for what had seemed like days while her formal uniform had been cut and measured. But she understood the necessity.

"Alright." She frowned as she recalled Vivienne's threats to 'expand her trousseau'. "But don't they take weeks to sew?"

"They do. Fortunately, yours was ordered weeks ago." At her raised eyebrows, he waved a hand in the air as though batting her concerns away. "I took the liberty. Guessed your sizes but I think I was pretty well on the nose."

She patted her belt hesitantly. "I didn't bring much money with me -"

"Oh, great fiery Maker, preserve me. You really think I give a toss about the coin? How many times did you put a blade or arrow through a blaggard on the verge of skewering me, precisely?" He raised a finger threateningly as she opened her mouth to respond. "Say another word on the matter and you'll heartily regret it."

She expelled a breath through her nose, conceding defeat. "Let's get on with it then, though I doubt the Magisterium will care much about my appearance. I suspect they'll be more concerned with keeping their fingers in their ears."

"They will, I promise you," Dorian countered firmly as he steered her down the street of boutiques. "They play a version of the Game here too, don't forget that. They'll be looking for any excuse to tear you down. Let's not march into battle with dull blades, shall we?" He tilted his head forward in a knowing, 'don't argue with those who know better' sort of way.

Before she could answer, Dorian froze beside her. She tensed and followed his gaze. They were being approached down the promenade by a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard and black, overhanging eyebrows. He was being tailed by an elf carrying a stack of books and paper-wrapped robes over one arm. The elf was jogging to keep up; there was a purpose to the man's gait that wasn't hampered at all by a slight limp of the left leg.

"On your guard," Dorian whispered quickly. It was all he had time to say before the man was upon them.

He swept up in a gust that smelled of parchment and the faint, acrid mustiness of someone who spent too long in shut up rooms. He was taller than Dorian by half a head, and the smile he gave as he looked down reminded the Inquisitor of the look Skyhold's cook had given the roaches in her kitchen before they were swatted.

"Magister Pavus," he greeted with a ceremonious and educated accent, inclining his head.

"Magister Victrinus," Dorian answered with equally cool civility.

"Are you preparing another rabble-rouser motion to keep us all sitting in chamber for hours tomorrow?" The taller man narrowed his eyes and gave a muttering sort of laugh.

"No, you're safe from me. For now." The Inquisitor caught Dorian's ever so casual stress on the last two words, though they were delivered with a smile.

"How comforting," the other Magister murmured dismissively. He turned his gaze to her. "And who is your… companion?"

Dorian stepped to the side, gesturing in an unnecessarily grand manner. "May I present Inquisitor Lavellan? She joined me today to take in the beauties of the city."

"Oh?" the Magister replied, eyebrows lifting. "And how does our great capital strike you, Inquisitor?" Her title rolled off his tongue like he was spitting out an unpleasant piece of gristle.

She folded her hands behind her back. This wasn't the first time she'd faced down nobility who'd prefer she didn't exist, in one form or another. "It strikes me as a proud place, Magister Victrinus. I find Minrathous contradicts many of the stories I'd heard about it before seeing it with my own eyes."

"Southern propaganda," he spat suddenly, viciously. "The attempt of weak nations to deride their betters." A muscle jumped in his jaw. A heavy silence followed, and Victrinus cleared his throat, appearing to rein himself in.

"Shall we be receiving you on my estate for the Magisterium banquet?" he continued, tone more moderate. "The Archon has bestowed the honour of host on my family this year." His expression made it clear that it wasn't an honour received happily.

"I will attend on your invitation, your Lordship," she said, plucking the correct form of address for a Magister out of a distant memory of a flustered Josephine ticking off a list of confirmed attendees before the ball in Halamshiral. "Thank you."

He smiled, baring impossibly bright teeth. "You will be welcome. As will you, Pavus."

Dorian nodded, not returning the smile this time.

"Let us see what tomorrow brings," the Magister continued in a curious undertone. He sounded as though he were modifying plans. Based on what new information, she couldn't guess. "Until the sitting, then," he concluded. He bowed and took a few steps down the street. The elf scampered to catch up.

Before departing entirely, he turned back to face her. "Enjoy our city, Lady Lavellan." He smiled before turning on his heel with a sharp bark at his slave and was gone, the crowd subtly parting before him.

Dorian looked like he was on the verge of catching up with the man and demanding satisfaction. She laid a hand on his arm.

"It's alright," she said in a steady voice.

"It is bloody well _not_ alright," Dorian snapped indignantly. "Did you hear how deliberately he left off your title?"

"Technically it's not my title any longer. And I've been called far worse than a lady. No, leave it Dorian," she continued firmly when he took a step down the street. "This is not the battle to fight."

He huffed, shaking his head. He put his balled fists on his hips and paced in front of her. "Malevolent old bastard," he griped venomously. "Swiving zealot. What I wouldn't give for one of his filthy rituals to do Tevinter a favour and just blow his bloody head off!"

"I take it I was just introduced to the Lucerni's biggest roadblock?" she said, looking down to where he'd disappeared in the throng.

"Oh, not just the Lucerni's." Dorian's pacing ceased. "That was Secundus Victrinus. Leader of the imperialist movement, avowed enemy of southern Thedas, blood mage, and utterly vile git." He sighed. "But he has the ear of half the Senate just by virtue of his last name. The Victrinus family were big noises during the Second Blight and they've been magisters ever since. With one word, his faction can have almost all my motions overturned before they even make it onto the Senate floor."

The Inquisitor nodded, mulling through the information. "I see. He doesn't take kindly to reform talks, I'd imagine."

Dorian snorted. "Of course not. They're anathema to his kind. Crippled by traditions we should have binned in the last Age. I wasn't the least bit surprised to hear he'd been seen conniving with the Venatori, though there was never any proof. My lone comfort are whispers that he's fallen out of favour with the Archon. Regardless -" and here he took her by the shoulder and looked her in the eye. "He is a dangerous man and your biggest obstacle in convincing the Senate to turn the Militis against Solas. Do not underestimate him."

"You can depend on it, and I'm grateful for the warning," she assured him. "But... we're still going to the Archives, right?" she asked seriously after a moment.

Dorian gave a short, hopeless short of laugh. "After we go buy your bloody frock," he said with a smile, hooking her arm back through his own.


	4. Chapter 4

The entrance to the Senatum Spire was as intimidating as the spire itself, no doubt by design. The open portal yawned over her head like a black marble maw, ready at any moment to snap down and swallow the foolish ants who scurried inside. It was flanked by a row of mail-suited battle mages, faces invisible under black helms. They were a far cry from the insipid picture of snarling, feeble tricksters running amok without Chantry control that southern Andrastians were fond of using as a parable. These silent sentinels seemed to be carved from the same marble they guarded. She didn’t doubt they were as disciplined as any Templar unit.

“Come on! We’re already cutting it fine.” Dorian was waving her on without breaking stride, already halfway across the chequered slab floor of the entry foyer. She jogged to catch up, lengthening her steps to keep pace.

“Remember, you’re the first order of business after the usual tedious ceremonies,” he said perfunctorily. He switched a thick binding full of notes from one arm to the other. “The sitting itself lasts for three days, so barring any, Maker help me, major incidents, you’ll have two chances to speak. Alright? Inquisitor?”

Her attention had wandered slightly as they’d begun climbing a long, looping staircase, lined with carved busts. “Hm?” she said. She’d been trying to read the plaques underneath as they’d sped past. “Yes, three days, I know.”

Dorian let out a measured breath. “Well, the Archon is in attendance on the last day and the Magisterium can only put the matter to a vote in his presence. Just remember, you need only lay the groundwork today, you needn’t -”

“Dorian,” she cut in. “Stop panicking. We spoke of all this last night.”

He laughed, a hint of his usual self showing through. “Give me the luxury of a little panic. Just the thing to get the blood rolling.”

“Don’t start too many fights, political or otherwise,” she recited. “Don’t be discouraged by their slander. Project your voice. Be simple but forceful. Don’t worry, I remember all your lessons, Magister.”

“Well, they’ll soon see what you do or don’t know. We’re here,” Dorian said heavily. The humour in his voice had drained away as quickly as it had appeared.

They had reached the top of the staircase at last. They stood at a set of huge, sylvanwood doors, decorated by black iron ring handles as big as her head and carved with the twin symbols of the Chantry and the Magisterium. Two more guards stood watch, heads moving almost imperceptibly as they scanned the busy floor below. One of them nodded to Dorian as they approached. She could hear a dull murmur on the other side of the postern, like a distant crashing ocean. Taking a deep breath and trying to call to mind Josephine’s lectures on courtly poise, she pushed on the rings. The door swung inwards with a creak, and she stepped through.

The Senate chamber was magnificent. She had no other word for it. She guessed it to be half again the size of the Great Hall of Skyhold in height, width and depth. The room sunk away before her in a semicircle of wide, tiered rings and would easily hold hundreds if necessary. Every tier was lined with mahogany benches upholstered with dark red velvet, covered by a shallow angled desk for papers. In the very centre of the semicircles’ orbit was a throne on a high dais, the arms held aloft by a pair of carved demons, their faces miserable in subjugation. There were no windows, only golden Tevinter eagles as tall as giants perched near the rafters, beady metal eyes observing the floor below. Three immense chandeliers lit the room, affixed with hundreds of magical wisplights.

This was the room from which Tevinter had once unrelentingly carved out a domain that touched every ocean that bordered Thedas, then ruled it for millennia. She suddenly wished she had the luxury of objectivity, in order to bask in the history that carried around the chamber like an inaudible song. 

Almost all the Magisterium was already present, though a few were still loitering up near the door, speaking to assistants and slaves who were scribbling their last minute orders down on squares of parchment with stubby ink nibs. Every head lifted as she entered, and although she saw a few narrowed eyes, she was ignored for the moment. 

“You’re down there.” Dorian’s hushed voice was close to her ear. He was pointing to a small gated box on the lowest level that sat to the right side of the throne, flush to the back wall. In dead centre view of every person in the room. 

“Of course,” she muttered. “I knew the Magisterium would want to put visitors at ease.” 

“Good luck,” he whispered. She felt a squeeze on her forearm and she gave him a quick nod.

Threading her way downwards past the perfumed and coiffed Senators, she concentrated on rehearsing her speech rather than thinking about the stares drilling holes in her back. She had found the Great Game in Halamshiral a thrilling and giddy adventure, a high-stakes puzzle for her intellect to chew on. But there, she had a solid wall of allies at her side, navigating her through the cutthroat world of politicking and pointing out the traps before she leapt into them headfirst. Here, in this very foreign place, she had almost no one. And the stakes were higher than they’d ever been.

She steeled herself. These three short days could decide the fate of the world she’d just saved from Corypheus. She would force Tevinter to see the danger, even if she had to drag the entire Magisterium and their weighty history to the truth kicking and screaming.

She reached the box and opened the waist-high gate, stepping in and turning to seat herself on the low velvet couch inside. She looked up at the room. Dorian was easy to spot, sitting with other members of the Lucerni and chatting animatedly to a woman with short blonde hair. On the opposite side of the chamber, the imperialist faction stared daggers. Magister Victrinus was the only one not doing so, head down as he read a page of notes. His mouth was a thin line. She took a deep breath.

There was a clicking noise to her right, then the sound of a key turning in a latch. A panel on the wall opened, admitting entrance to an imposing female Magister dressed in somber black robes and flanked by two clerks. She wore a heavy chain around her neck bearing a large golden seal stamped with the Archon’s hooded ferryman. In her hand was a staff carved from onyx and decorated with three black bells. The Senate Speaker, she recalled from the copy of Imperius Politika in Skyhold’s library. The Speaker controlled the proceedings as a nominated representative of the Archon, though she couldn’t vote in motions or speak herself. 

The woman approached a raised platform holding an elaborately carved chair and desk. The clerks, a simple table to her left, occupied by a small army of quills and inkpots and one huge slab of a book bound in what looked like dragonskin. 

“Will my lords and ladies please find their seats!” The Speaker’s voice bounced around the chamber as though amplified by magic. Which, of course, it almost certainly was.

The general hum of the room quietened down, and the few Magisters still standing slid onto their benches. A clerk’s loaded quill hovered over an empty page of the book.

The Speaker stood, and began intoning what sounded like a well-rehearsed script. “Esteemed Senators, we welcome you to the one thousandth, one hundred and ninety-seventh sitting of the Magisterium, held in the reign of Archon Orentius the Third. We convene this assembly in his name for the good of the Tevinter Imperium and all her subjects.”

“Long may he reign,” the room replied in unison. 

This was followed by more oaths of loyalty sworn to the Divine and the Circles of Magi, during which Dorian gave her an eyeroll that reminded her so much of the bored children she’d seen stuck in Chantry services that her lips twitched despite herself.

Once all had been recited, The Speaker thumped the staff once against the ground, bells trilling. Ritual apparently complete, the Speaker sat down and picked up a page from her desk. “Our agenda begins today with the Senate hearing the petitions of our two honoured guests, followed by a short _quaestio tempore_ -”

The rest of the speech was carrying on without her attention. Two? 

The Speaker’s droning ceased. The woman looked over her shoulder to where she sat and hummed in a disgruntled sort of way. She leaned over the side of her pulpit and loudly addressed one of the clerks. “Where is the other petitioner? The Senate doors have closed -”

“Forgive me, Speaker. I am here.”

The voice came from the top of the chamber, and every head swivelled. Time came to a crunching halt. She felt the floor of her stomach drop away as some of the puzzle pieces fell with heavy abruptness into place. Of course. Of _course_. How could she have been so stupid?

He began descending the stairs. Every step was measured, precise. He was in his full regalia, shining ironbark plates over golden mail. The wolf skin rippled as though it was still living fur. He looked utterly foreign as he moved through the Senate hall, like a picture cut out from one book and pasted into another. Compared to the indolent, buttoned-up silks and satins he passed, he looked like a wild thing. A regal beast fitting to bear the title of Dread Wolf.

As he descended the last step and began crossing the Senate floor, she caught Dorian’s eye. His face had gone completely slack in horror.

The Speaker shook her head and tutted, as though oddly dressed elves appearing in her chamber was an everyday occurrence. “Please take your seat, Master…” She consulted her notes again. “Solas.”

He hadn’t even bothered with a fake name. Dorian was right; he really had walked straight into the heart of Tevinter. And he’d fooled them all.

Solas placed a hand on the gate. Before she could think, her own shot out and grabbed it. He gazed at her calmly. His eyes held none of the warmth they’d had when she’d brought in Naddie. He was every inch the ancient Elvhen.

“Whatever this is, it won’t work,” she whispered. He didn’t respond, except to silently remove her hand and slide into the box to take his seat. He didn’t look at her.

For her part, the next portion of the proceedings fell on deaf ears. She was consumed with self-reproach. Never in her most outlandish predictions of his plans had she considered this. Revealing himself publicly was so far outside her expectations that she hadn’t even considered it long enough to dismiss it as a possibility. Had her information network really reduced so badly that she’d caught not even the faintest hint that Solas wanted to address the Senate? Or worse, had she become less effective at parsing it to find the truth? Was her judgment… clouded?

The air was becoming hot and harder to breath. She turned to look at his profile and leaned in to whisper. 

“These people - they stand for everything you despise. I don’t know what -”

She trailed off. He continued looking ahead, maddeningly calm and silent. “What are you _doing?_ ” she asked helplessly. There was no answer.

Her attention snapped back to the proceedings when the Speaker rapped her knuckles for order. “The Senate will now hear the first petition. Master Solas?” The Speaker gestured to a lectern a short ways beyond her platform.

He rose without a word. She watched those long, elegant hands interlock behind his back, and acidic darts of dread rose in her throat. She saw Dorian leaning back in his seat, one arm folded across his chest and the other dragging a hand down the front of his face. He was shaking his head occasionally as his other party members bombarded him with whispers. 

“Magisters of Tevinter,” Solas began, his words ringing clear and true through the room. “Your nation is besieged. For centuries, you have repelled your ancient enemies and stood triumphant in their ashes. You have been a bulwark against the Qun and their mighty armies, protecting the younger nations of Thedas against indoctrination. Today, for the sake and continuation of that duty, I come bearing a warning.”

He paused. She caught Dorian’s eye, and he gave a desperate sort of shrug.

“Your enemy hunts for you now with a bloodlust that only so cruel and bestial a philosophy could inspire,” Solas continued, the poetic canter of his voice rising in intensity. “No longer can you sit behind the walls of Minrathous and let the Qunari harry the edges of your empire. They are coming for you in force and numbers you have never seen, and they are coming soon.”

Murmurs sprang up around the room like spot fires. The Speaker rapped her staff on the floor and they subsided slightly.

“Magisterium!” he continued, throat warming as he began to pace in front of the gallery. “They believed they had surprise on their side, and I have come here today to strip them of that advantage. But now, I must ask you to press this boon. Send your armies forth to meet them. Do not make the mistake of believing Minrathous impenetrable. The Qunari have schemed for this moment with a unified mind for decades. They _will_ bring Tevinter to ruin if you do nothing.”

Dorian finally sprang to his feet. He pointed down at Solas. “This is speculation and scaremongering at its finest! We cannot be expected -”

He was drowned out by a chorus of boos from the opposite side of the room. His own allies began a round of ‘hear, hear!’, and the two warred it out for a few moments until the Speaker planted her staff in the ground with a sound that echoed like a gong. 

“Magister Pavus, take your seat! There will be order in the Senate!” she cried. When the worst of the noise had quietened, she nodded to Solas to continue. 

“I have not come empty-handed,” he went on, quiet yet heard by all. “The agents of Fen’Harel collected this information at great cost, and I deliver it today as their leader. We stand ready to assist Tevinter.”

There was a surge of chatter. Dorian jumped to his feet again, joined by the blonde woman at his side and several other Magisters dotted around the room. All began speaking at once, fighting to be heard in the din.

As the Speaker attempted to wrestle the chamber back to order, she looked down at her left hand, still faintly glowing with greenish energy. So this was to be his plan. It was shocking in its boldness, but she had to admit, she probably would have suggested something similar if she’d been his advisor. The Militis would be occupied by the Qunari, something the magisters would far more readily believe a threat. If they took him up on his offer, Fen’Harel agents would be supported by Tevinter, making any southern nation think twice before moving against him. Best of all, his enemies had been utterly blindsided by the move. All her strategies lay in tatters.

But she couldn’t help feeling there was a key piece of the design she hadn’t seen yet. None of this moved Solas closer to his real goal.

“I believe it is your turn to speak.”

She looked up. He was standing with his back to the Senate floor, still in mild upheaval. As foolish as it was, as ridiculous as her logical brain knew she was being, she couldn’t help feeling… proud. It was a cunning and clever strategy. She’d always known his intelligence was prodigious, but now she saw it in a new light. Leader to leader. She supposed it was a small comfort that the greatest enemy she’d ever faced was one she could respect so well.

They passed each other. She stood before the lectern and looked to the Speaker, who banged her staff a few more times before she was satisfied with the state of the chamber. The older woman gave her a nod. She took a steadying breath. Nothing else to do but wade in.

“Lords and ladies of the Magisterium, I am Inquisitor Lavellan. As you know, the Inquisition was instrumental in the downfall of Corypheus, a madman that claimed he knew the will of Tevinter. He was blinded by avarice and fear, and bore no resemblance to the nation he believed he represented. The Inquisition is no more, but I did not lay down the mantle of Thedas’ protector when that institution dissolved.”

There were loud scoffs from Magister Victrinus’ direction. She ploughed on. “I believe there is a new threat to your nation, and from a quarter you are completely unprepared to face.” She pointed behind her. “It is the elf that sits there that will destroy Tevinter, not the Qun.”

The scoffs turned into outright jeering and laughter.

“Are we to be treated to a spectacle intermission, Lady Speaker?” Victrinus had risen and drawled with lazy amusement. “This is better than the Hospitiumos season.” Dorian’s face was a thundering stormcloud as the Speaker called for order.

She continued, determined at least to finish. “The Qunari are a threat to your nation, there is no denying it. But shouldering the burden alone as you have always done is _not_ the way,” she entreated. “I come bearing a message from Divine Victoria, who believes now is the time to heal the schism between the two Chantries -”

The boos were rising to a volume that not even the Speaker could control, and they were definitely not contained to the imperialist camp. She rose her voice in an attempt to continue. “The era of Tevinter isolationism must end. The power of Fen’Harel is unlike any living today have known, and I promise you that even now he plots the destruction of every sovereign nation of Thedas. You _must_ turn your Militis against him and let the southern kingdoms join you against the Qun -”

Almost every Magister was on their feet now, either shouting at her or at each other. Calls of ‘southern rabbit’ started up. Dorian and a few of his friends were nose to nose with other nearby magisters and looked moments away from swinging a fist or fireball. Victrinus was laughing openly and shaking his head as he resumed his seat. 

Pellets of paper loaded with ink began raining down on her. The Speaker was banging her staff incessantly, apoplectic with rage as she shrieked for order. One heavy wad smeared slowly down the side of her face, and she watched it drop to the floor between her feet.

She returned to the petitioner’s box, feeling the makeshift missiles hitting her back and sides. She wiped a larger blotch of ink out of her eye. At the gate, the paper or paper throwers seemed to have exhausted themselves, and she opened it to retake her seat. Solas was as still and neutral as a stone.

There was a moment of silence in their little box as the chaos continued to rage around them. Then, unseen by the rest of the world, he reached over and rested his hand on top of hers. She turned her palm up and gripped it tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin bits:  
> quaestio tempore - question time  
> Hospitiumos - Roman acting troupes, who performed in seasonal shows.


	5. Chapter 5

The evening had not begun well. Dorian had been in a foul temper about attending the banquet at all, declaring he would rather quit politics and run off to live as a hedge mage in Rivain. He'd disappeared soon after they'd arrived, still in high dudgeon and muttering something about finding his informants and stringing them from the Great Bridge.

Which left her standing quite alone in the opulent ballroom on the Victrinus estate. She hovered near a table loaded with towering platters of fruits and cheeses while the attention of the room crawled on her skin like ants. Her hand alone would have been enough to draw eyes, but combined with the fact she was an elf attending a party in a capacity other than serving drinks and they'd been clamped to her like magnets. Fortunately she'd also been given a berth as wide as if she had a suspicious cough.

There was no doubt that the entire city knew by now what had occurred in the Senate earlier that day, which she was certain was helping her notoriety.

Even the servants were staring; some with shock, some with barely disguised loathing. When one group had passed behind her to replace their trays, she’d heard ‘ _harellan_ ’ whispered viciously. She tried to drown the sting with some large gulps of the excellent wine.

Never before had it been driven home just how much she’d been insulated by the Inquisition. Standing at the head of the group even when it was just a rebel Chantry splinter gave her legitimacy as a negotiator. The clans had been wary but saw her as a toehold forward in the world of the shemlens. Her human allies made other human groups listen when she spoke, even grudgingly.

Here, alone, she was just an elf. She was learning what that truly meant.

Matters were not improved by the spectacle developing on the other side of the ballroom. Solas was also in attendance and his popularity was rising by the minute. He was surrounded by a cluster of Tevinter elite, and appeared to be spending a great deal of time answering their breathless questions. The difference in their treatment could not be more marked; servants flowed in and around the group like a military supply line as nobles subtly jostled each other to get into better earshot. Solas sipped his wine and spoke calmly even as the group around him became more agitated, but there was a cold detachment in his eyes that no one else but herself seemed to be concerned about.

The most troublesome sight was of a barrel-chested man whose cravat bore the pin of a _Legatus pro praetore_ elbowing his way to Solas’ side and taking charge of the questioning. She knew the Militis could not move on its own without the Magisterium vote, but if Solas struck a bargain directly, she doubted she could depend on their legions preventing his activities in Tevinter lands. She decided to eat a wedge of cheese slathered in quince paste and try not to think about it.

Her dour thoughts were interrupted by the entrance from the opposite wall of the middle-aged blonde woman she’d seen sitting next to Dorian in the Senate. Her long, vibrantly purple dress dipped rather daringly at the front, and the rustling feathers rising from one shoulder gave the impression of a preening waterbird ruffling its plumage. The Inquisitor suspected Morrigan would have approved greatly, insofar as she approved of anything.

The woman’s gaze swept the ballroom in consternation before settling on her and lighting up. She crossed the room with nary a glance at the eyes that followed her. As Leliana would have whispered in her ear, here was a seasoned player of the Game.

“Inquisitor Lavellan!” she called as she drew near. She approached with a hand already extended to shake. When she took it, the grip was firm and purposeful.

“Magister Maevaris Tilani. Delighted to finally make your acquaintance. I don’t suppose that foul-mouthed rogue Varric has sullied my reputation before me?” She laughed, a rich, deep sound. Her eyes peered unswervingly into the Inquisitor’s. It was immediately apparent why Dorian had been so keen to coax this woman into the Lucerni’s circle; there was no mistaking the signs of a skilled politico.

She smiled despite herself. “He hasn’t, Lady Tilani. I think your good reputation precedes you far more successfully.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor, but let’s hope I can lend you something more substantial than a good name during your stay in Tevinter.” Maevaris put one hand on her hip while the other whipped open a fan with practiced aplomb. Painted lips pursed slightly as she scanned the length of the refreshment tables. “I was hoping to find Pavus with you. I need him to start greeting the Legate Council before Victrinus sinks his claws too deep.”

“I haven’t seen him all evening, I’m afraid,” she said, joining her skim of the crowd.

“Hmm,” the magister murmured. “And _that_ is an irksome sight.” The fan snapped closed in order to point at the knot surrounding Solas.

“Yes,” she sighed, following her gaze. The quince paste churned uncomfortably in her stomach.

“All the more reason our illustrious leader should be here and attempting to draw some of them off, but I haven’t seen him since we left the Senate,” Maevaris went on, fan opening to continue its work. “Where in Thedas has the bloody fool got to?”

She felt a prickle across the back of her neck. A prickle she had learned to trust. “I think we should look for him, Magister.”

The older woman nodded. “I agree. I’ll go find my manservant and tell him to start looking in the gardens. In the meantime, would you be so kind as to take the upper hall? Through those doors and up to the right, I believe.”  

They parted with the promise to return and compare notes if they were unsuccessful. As she crossed the floor to the gilt-laden doors, she caught Solas’ eye on her through his thicket of admirers. His gaze immediately broke away when she looked at him, turning to a servant and holding his goblet under their jug of wine.

She wondered what he saw. A sad remnant of the Inquisitor that was, probably.

Behind the doors, she discovered a staircase free from guests. She began walking the second floor corridors aimlessly, pausing only to examine Victrinus’ taste in art. Patriotic scenes of Tevinter conquerors mostly, with a few family portraits sprinkled throughout. Fairly dull stuff. Though she did stumble on one piece titled ‘The Subjugation’, which depicted an ancient triumphal procession through Minrathous, complete with magisters riding in chariots and holding aloft the severed heads of the defeated Arlathan elves. She didn’t pause too long to absorb that one.

She had never fully grasped what the life of a Tevinter-born elf was while she was still hunting by night and wandering forest-bound ruins by day, safely ensconced in her clan. Even in the Inquisition, she’d given shamefully little thought to the elves outside her Dalish sphere at all.

But the long days travelling the Imperial Highway had been spent seeing and thinking of little else. Here, it was a lifelong sentence to second class citizenry. It meant being used as chattel. Elves birthed children in fear, knowing they could be bought and sold on your master’s whim. Or worse, their lives cut short in a blood magic ritual.

She exhaled slowly as she continued down the soft carpeted hall. She realised she agreed entirely with Solas on one point; the elves _had_ lost too much. She would never agree with his methods, but there was a need for change. A social imbalance that had continued centuries too long. His fight had begun against enemies incomparable in scope to mere Tevinter magisters, but the principle remained the same.  

The rustle of footsteps pricked her ears from further down the hall. There was a magister approaching wearing a embroidered blue cape slung over one shoulder. The hunter in her marvelled briefly at the exceptional quality of his boot leather, and she tried to quiet the cynic in her that asked if their owner appreciated such craftsmanship beyond its use getting a leg up in the perpetual Tevinter power tussle.

A human attendant fussed about him, pulling on tiny silver buttons dotted along the breast of the man’s black doublet as best he could while they were striding down the corridor. The mage was busy drinking an amber liquid from a carved crystal snifter with an urgency that suggested he needed the alcohol’s effects before joining the party. She sympathized.

When the button adjustment interfered with the drinking, the valet was irritably waved off and dismissed with a few words. The younger man withdrew, looking put out, and disappeared back from the direction they’d came. The magister ignored him, tilting his head and draining the glass. She slowed as he came closer, intending to ask after Dorian’s whereabouts.

He acknowledged her with a nod. There was no sign of the recoiling surprise she was getting used to producing in Tevinter citizens. He was broad-shouldered for a magister, hair threaded with grey. Weariness weighed on the lines of his face, as if he was unwell and not really up for a night of small talk and dancing.

As she drew nearer, she confirmed he was definitely ill. There was a tinge around his lips and his eyes were cloudy.

When they were five paces apart, he stared at her in surprised confusion. His mouth dropped open as if to call out, but only managed a gurgling sound before all his muscles loosed and he pitched forward in a faint.

She sprinted to close the small gap and grabbed him about the shoulders before he hit the ground nose first. There was an overwhelming sweet smell on his breath under the alcohol fumes, and she felt a thrill of horror when she recognised it instantly. Lowering the swooning man to the floor, she picked up the snifter that had tumbled away. She ran a finger over the inside of the glass and touched it to her tongue. Her fear was confirmed and she quickly licked the back of her hand to remove it. Alongside the brandy was a distinctive, vicious substance she could grind up in her sleep; it was the same paste every Dalish clan north of the Minanter River used to coat their arrows before the hunt.

“Hello!” she yelled. “Is anyone there?” The man groaned as she kneeled by his head. “No, don’t try to move.”

She put a finger to his neck. The pulse was hammering away like a marcher’s drum. Dots of froth appeared on the man’s chin as he began to wheeze.

“What’s… what’s happening to me?” he managed to gasp.

“You’ve been poisoned, serrah,” she answered matter-of-factly. The man’s eyes went wide, and he grasped weakly at her arms. She leaned over to meet his gaze directly.

“Lie still and don’t struggle,” she ordered firmly, loosening his collar buttons.

The sounds of the party drifted in from the open windows of the rooms nearby, but the corridor remained maddeningly empty. A grey cast appeared on the man’s face as his panicked, overstimulated heart pumped the  through his veins. She knew he would die in minutes if she didn’t act.

He groaned again, hands clenching fistfuls of silk jacket over his abdomen. She heaved him into a sitting position, propping him up with her own body.

“Forgive me,” she murmured into his ear.

She lowered his jaw with her left hand and reached around with her right. Two of her fingers snaked inside his mouth and pressed down on his tongue deep in the back of his throat. The man gagged, then spasmed. She withdrew her fingers just in time to avoid the contents of his stomach as they splashed to the ground, soaking the carpet through. Sickly sweet fumes rose from the vomit, nearly sending her into a faint beside him.

Emptying his stomach only bought a little time. He needed an antidote before the toxin fed into his liver and kidneys. Hooking her arms under his, she dragged him on her knees until he was in a sitting position, doubled over in pain and slumped up against the wall. His skin was taking on an alarming shade of papery white.

“Serrah, you’ve swallowed a type of magebane,” she said loudly, keeping his chin aloft with one hand as she looked into his eyes. They were sliding and rolling as the man fought to stay conscious. “I need certain herbs to counter the toxin. Tell me where the magister’s laboratory is.”

He shook his head, breath coming in stutters. He pointed to the row of closed doors behind him. “Guest rooms. Mage’s pouch,” he got out, before his eyes closed and he slid back to the floor.

She jumped to try the nearest golden knob. Locked, and she didn’t have time to pick it. Crossing to the next in two bounds, she jiggled the handle. It swung free, revealing what appeared to be a gentleman’s bedroom. A chest at the foot of the bed seemed promising, and she hurriedly hoisted it open. A hip flask, a linen nightshirt, a powdered wig. She shook her head as she raked the useless items aside.

“Herbs, herbs… yes!” She grabbed a red leather bag by the neck and pulled it free it triumphantly. Rising, she upended it onto the bed, shifting quickly through the contents with her fingertips. To her ecstatic relief, there was a full stem of elfroot and a few dried hollylock leaves. She still needed embrium flowers, and she clucked her tongue as she scanned the room desperately for inspiration.

A distant memory twigged; a very silly conversation she’d overheard long ago about Cullen’s hair. Something about the pomade he used smelling like the poultices doled out by the surgeon.

Hoping against hope for a miracle, her eyes lit upon the dressing stand and a small tub of hair cream hidden behind an army of colognes. She unscrewed the brass lid and put it to her nose. She almost shouted for joy at the bitter, distinctive smell. Never would she have guessed that Cullen’s laborious hair maintenance would save a man’s life one day.

Gathering up her prizes, she returned to the corridor and kneeled beside her impromptu patient, who was taking sips of air so shallow they would have barely filled a cat’s lung. Lacking a mortar and pestle - and time, if the blue colour around the man’s lips was any indication - she put the herbs in her mouth along with a good dollop of the hair cream and chewed until it was a paste. She removed the gunk from her mouth with a finger, and parting the man’s lips, put a small piece on his tongue.

“Swallow that,” she instructed. His throat moved as he tried and failed, his tongue and lips already bone dry. There was a small jug of water and a cup on the nightstand of the room she’d ransacked, and she retrieved it hurriedly.

Tipping the brimming vessel to his mouth, she trickled in a mouthful of water. He coughed, but swallowed obediently.

“There. Small sips, now,” she encouraged. Piece by piece, she fed him the antidote along with gulps of water. As he drank, his breathing began to slow. Picking up a wrist, she measured his pulse. Still quicker than it should be, but no longer booming and erratic.

“The herbs are working,” she said with a relieved smile. The man returned it weakly. “A mage healer should set you completely to rights. Now come, you need to lie comfortably. I’ll help you to bed.”

Wrapping an arm over his side and taking his weight as best she could, the Inquisitor managed to haul him upright enough to stagger the few paces through the door and onto the bed. He collapsed with a heavy sigh, and she pulled off his boots before lifting his feet to join the rest of him.

She watched his face for signs of relapse, but the herbs seemed to be keeping the toxin at bay. By no means was he sound and whole, but she was confident his life was no longer in immediate danger. Once he was settled, she retrieved the snifter from the hall, holding it aloft.

“Do you know who served you this, ser?” she asked, tilting the snifter in the candlelight. He shook his head.

“My lord? Were you calling?” she heard from the hall, tentative footsteps approaching. “My lord, what - Maker, what is that _smell?_ ”

Moments later, the head of the same attendant she’d seen earlier poked around the corner. “Ser!” he cried, blood draining from his face as he rushed to the bedside.

“Do you trust this man?” she asked the bedridden magister, who nodded feebly in return. She turned to the valet. “He needs a mage healer and as much water as he’ll take. Let him eat something small if he can.” The dumbstruck assistant nodded vigorously.

A tasselled bag filled with silk kerchiefs was hanging from a bedpost. She emptied it and placed the snifter inside, hoping the owner wouldn’t mind too much her borrowing it for a good cause.

“I must leave you now. I have a friend I must find.” Uneasiness had gripped her; a poisoner on the loose and Dorian nowhere to be seen.

The man reached out a hand, and she stepped closer to take it. He squeezed, and she leaned closer as he tried to speak. “Thank you,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

She smiled. “I’m just glad you’re alright,” she said intently, patting the back of his hand. “That was more excitement than Magister Victrinus promised, I’m sure. But I will leave you to recover.” She caught the eye of the servant. “Take care of him,” she added, to which he could only nod, still speechless.

She returned to the plush hall, portraits looking down over the scene with faint disapproval. Her search of the second floor had been fruitless, and she decided to return to the ballroom to see if Maevaris had had better luck. As she retraced her steps, skipping down the stairs two at a time, she considered her next move.

Her first suspect was a Qunari spy, posing as a servant and on the watch for opportunistic moments, though the uncomfortable thought occurred to her that despite the previously passive nature of Fen’Harel’s rebellion, policies could have changed. Working out of the kitchens or cellars seemed to be a logical place from which to strike and retreat.

The event was certainly fertile ground for anyone bearing a grudge against the Tevinter Empire; almost every noble above the rank of praeteri in Minrathous was in attendance. But why use a toxin whose ingredients were rare and difficult to obtain in this city, when there was no doubt hundreds of other easily accessed poisons the Magisterium used to vie against each other every day? The answer was obvious and sent ripples of discomfort down her spine as she pushed open the doors to admit the flood of noise and heat from the ballroom once more.

It was elven.

The time for chitchat and introductions seemed to be passed and the dancing portion of the evening was in full swing. The elegant, swooping melodies of the small orchestra stationed at one end of the hall filled the air. Tevinter appeared to favour the more modern sliding waltzes than the traditional set dances common in Fereldan, or the Orlesian cotillions. Couples were whirling in artful motion over the parquet floor, laughing gaily at jokes and completely oblivious to the scene that had occurred moments ago just above their heads. She peered through the weaving pairs for any signs of Dorian or Maevaris.

She spotted only Solas, still on the opposite side of the hall and still besieged with attentive fans. He looked like he’d had his fill of politics as an overdressed young man chattered to the side of his face, but his expression changed when he caught sight of her, his eyes lingering instead of darting away.

His stare was unwavering, even through the crowded room. She wasn’t sure what suddenly warranted his attention, but she found she was a little braver from this distance and kept her gaze steady. If she was honest, she knew she was still riding high on the adrenaline of the moment that had just passed, and that in combination with the alcohol still warming her cheeks washed away some of the rigid walls she’d erected around her feelings. She could admit that it was simply pleasant to hold the attention of the man who occupied a large part of her waking thoughts these days, even if it was only for a minute or two.

However, why he continued to ignore the prodding of his companion simply to look at her was a question filled with heat and dangerous hope and she tried to put it aside.

There was a flash of purple out of the corner of her eye and she was loathe that she should be the one to cut short the moment.

But the purple shape morphed into the Magister Tilani with the Magister Pavus draped over her shoulder, the woman staggering under his weight. She broke her eyes away from the elf across the ball with sorrow.

“Inquisitor,” Tilani called out as they drew closer. “Could you -?” She angled her head towards Dorian, who was almost at the bottom of a brandy and walking anything but a straight line.

She quickly maneuvered herself under his other arm, letting out an ‘oof’ as she took the broad-shouldered human’s weight.

“Let’s get him into the triclinium.” Tilani’s voice was strained as they began walking in an odd frogmarch, pulling the stumbling man along between them. She pointed through a set of doors that led into a smaller room. The Inquisitor nodded, and tried to ignore the looks they were drawing as Dorian attempted to down his brandy mid-step and almost sent the trio sprawling.

The triclinium was a long, rectangular room scattered with low couches, lit by ornate golden sconces shining with candles high on the walls. Slaves threaded through the reclining guests to stack trays bursting with food on wide, stubby-legged tables. There were edible representatives from every corner of the Empire; among the ones she recognised were the pungent Vyrantium fish vinegars to be sopped up with bread that sat alongside dishes of oiled olives from the hills beyond Minrathous.

Tilani steered them towards the first empty berth in sight. She helped her tumble Dorian onto a lounge, to which he reacted only by reaching forward onto a nearby table and picking up a half-full cup of wine, downing the contents in two slurps.

“Thank the Cre - I’m so relieved he’s alright,” the Inquisitor said, catching herself. “Where did you find him?”

“Wrapped in misery around a palm tree in the garden,” Maevaris retorted, rolling her eyes. “Can you believe it?” The human woman straightened with a sigh, and turned to the Inquisitor. “He’s taking the day's events rather hard, I think. The Lucerni have lost some currency in the Magisterium, it’s true,” she added in a murmured aside.

“Don’t think I can’t hear you, Maevaris!” Dorian slurred, slumping forward to curl around his empty goblet. “Stop telling the Inquisitor such things. She doesn’t need to hear it.”

“She does,” Maevaris said firmly.

“And I want to,” the Inquisitor added. She kneeled besides Dorian’s couch and removed the cup, replacing it with her own hand. “I’m... so sorry, old friend,” she said quietly.

Dorian looked at her with eyes blurry with alcohol-induced emotion. “You are the last person who should ever apologise to me.” He gave her a rather uncoordinated one-armed hug, whimpering into her hair.

“Oh dear, that’s quite enough of Victrinus’ Blessed 8:12 for you,” Maevaris interjected, unwinding his arm to extricate the Inquisitor. “Time for a graceful departure before it becomes impossible, I think. Rather not let the vultures see our party leader in this state.” Her eyes surreptitiously darted around the room.

“I understand,” she said as she stood, brushing off her skirts. “But Lady Tilani -” and here she pulled the woman away a few steps, out of Dorian’s earshot. “Don’t let him drink or eat anything else until you get him home. There may be a poisoner at the party tonight.”

“What!” Maevaris exclaimed, elegant brows rising. “We must -”

The Inquisitor hushed her. “Please, do and say nothing for now. I think it very unlikely they will try twice in one evening. The toxin they are using takes time to prepare and can’t be replicated cheaply. But I must find them before they have that chance, and that will be far easier if they don’t know they are being pursued.”

Tilani pushed her tongue into her cheek, deep in thought. The fan tapped on a shoulder. “Yes, I suppose I see your point. What in all the Maker’s kingdom is Victrinus thinking, not screening his sla - his servants properly? That would be quite a scandal if it got out.” A slow smile appeared on her face. “Yes, best to keep this in our pocket for now.”

Behind them, Dorian keened into his empty wine cup. “Right, off to the washroom with you, I should think,” Tilani said, tucking her fan away in a mysterious compartment somewhere in her dress. “Forgive us leaving you to fend for yourself,” Tilani gave her an apologetic smile as she hoisted the drunk mage back onto her shoulder.

“Don’t concern yourself with me. Help him however you can.”

Maevaris inclined her head respectfully. “Of course, Lady Inquisitor.” Somehow, her old title didn’t sound like a sarcastic gibe coming from her mouth.

They were gone with a morose Dorian trying to blow her a kiss while simultaneously reaching for another brandy off a passing servant’s tray, which was prevented by his companion with a breezy smile.

She watched them depart, wondering. An elven poisoner, or someone doing their best imitation. Could it really be a rogue faction of the Fen’Harel rebellion, willing to use extreme measures to spread panic amongst their enemies? The feeling of being exposed crept back up her neck. Vulnerable.

She took up another neglected glass and chastised herself for falling prey to the same flighty imaginings a child felt on their first hunt. Though she couldn’t prevent herself from taking a sniff before it touched her lips, just to be sure.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him willingly surrender his wits before.”

The voice came from behind her. She turned to see Solas watching Dorian go, holding a silver goblet and wearing an inscrutable look.

She took a steadying breath as he rounded a table to draw nearer, realising he must have followed them across the ballroom. “I have, only once. After his father died,” she answered. “I’m afraid being among his fellow Magisters at this moment may be putting him in the same mood.”

A shadow of genuine sympathy crossed his face as he watched the retreating pair. Despite their differences, she knew there had been a kinship of sorts between the two mages, formed during the long roads to and from Skyhold. She was glad to see it may not have entirely evaporated.

But that was soon whisked away by other emotions. The rattle she felt in her usual equilibrium when he was nearby made itself known. Whatever hope she’d had that time would give her the benefit of placid rationality if they were ever to meet again had long since crumbled.

Solas appeared to have no intention of returning to his admirers and lay down on a lounge opposite, reclining onto the damask-covered backrest and crossing his ankles, imitating the style of the other guests. He plucked up an olive with two fingers extended on the same hand that held his goblet, popping the morsel casually in his mouth and letting his eyes wander the room.

The now familiar weight of endless sideways glances settled on her shoulders, though her companion seemed oblivious to the discomfort. She noticed more than one pair of eyes peeking over the frill of a fan towards him, and she knew why. There was a marked divide between Solas and any other elf these humans had encountered. They were used to rounded shoulders, bowing and scraping, gratefulness to be spared attention.

Solas, on the other hand, was a tall, inflexible figure, who not only had the gall to hold himself as a nobleman but also dressed as one, albeit with rebellious differences. He had forgone the knee-length, garishly wide collared coats most Tevinter men were wearing in favour of fine white shirtsleeves and a forest green doublet, patterned with intricate vines that bloomed with golden leaves. Onyx buttons shone on his cuffs and breast, which sharper eyes could note were carved with the constellation of Mythal. His only nod to Tevinter fashions were the few buttons opened at his throat to expose a dark silk cravat. She saw he wore completely enclosed leather boots that reached his knee, and she wondered if he’d made that cultural concession willingly. She’d seen almost no elves who went barefoot in Minrathous. Too dangerously elven to be allowed, she supposed.

But even more noticeable than his clothing was the aura that hung from him like a conqueror’s flag over a rampart. It was unique to him alone. He was both further distanced from the world while somehow more at ease in it.

A memory welled up of an old, copied manuscript she’d excavated from the bottom of a shelf in Skyhold’s library one afternoon; the account of an ancient Fereldan king who’d been driven into exile by a traitorous teyrna. The scribe wrote describing the moment they knew the coup had truly been defeated, which was not the death of the teyrna, nor the routing of her army. It was watching the king as he drew his first breath in the recaptured throne room.

At a distance, across the ballroom, it had been less pronounced. But up close, it was obvious the shabby mystic she'd once known was breathing that same air now.

She sat down on Dorian’s abandoned couch, back straight and rigid. One finger fidgeted on the stem of her cannikin.

“You’re risking a lot talking to me here,” she said, trying to keep it a statement rather than accusation.

“No more than you risked by attending at all,” he answered easily, taking a draught of wine. “My agents are present, of course. They will keep me informed if unfavourable whispers become a problem.” He looked at her with a strange expression. “They tell me... you have no one.”

That struck home. The artfully frolicking fauns decorating her cup became an imprint on her hand. It was difficult to tell if she was seeing pity or polite concern in his eyes, but regardless, she was having none of it.

“Perhaps my people are too good at hiding themselves to be found out by your ‘noble rebels’,” she retorted stiffly, trying to keep a rein on her temper.

“Perhaps,” he said noncommittally, picking up a sliver of cured meat and bringing it to his lips.

She eased a slow breath out between her teeth, whipping her wounded pride back into line. He was completely right, but that didn’t make it smart any less. There had been no one to ask to saddle up with her when she’d set out from the now barren Skyhold. She could not demand the ex-Inquisition abandon the new lives they were building on the freedom they’d earned with their own blood. They had always been too eager to fling themselves into harm’s way on her word, but now they had choices. Roots to grow into the charred soil.

There _had_ been lonely nights when a nib had dripped spots on the top of an empty page, but the parchment had always gone in the fire come morning. She knew they’d come without question, just as she knew they’d ache silently for the lives they’d leave behind. However dearly she wished to be safely clad again in their company, a good leader would not force them to make that decision, but more importantly, a good friend wouldn’t want them to. She had sworn to remember that.

“You know better than to underestimate me, Solas,” she said with what she hoped was some of the conviction that had once made generals and empresses second-guess themselves.

“I do not. But you seemed troubled.” He still wasn’t looking at her, but there was a vein of concern buried in the cool, standoffish tone.

“Did I?” she said, surprise taking the place of anger. She didn’t think she’d been acting _too_ upset.

“Yes.” He gave a short sigh, his fingers drumming an erratic pattern on his thigh. “I believe you’ve drunk four full cups of wine in forty minutes, but eaten only half a pear and two slices of cheese.”

She felt an arresting, embarrassed heat rise up her neck. “I thought you’d have been too preoccupied to notice something so small.”

He was silent for a moment, watching a group of praeteri sally past in a wave of rustling silks, hair wax and chatter.

“It is not something I may choose or not choose to do,” he answered eventually, before draining his glass with his eyes fixed somewhere on the other side of the room.

She found herself without a clever answer to that and decided to smooth non-existent creases from her skirts instead.

Another servant spotted their dry glasses and slowed to approach. As wine flowed in a red waterfall from the servant’s jug to her goblet, she shook off her distracted thoughts and reminded herself of her self-appointed charge. She watched the elf’s eyes as they bowed meekly and moved to Solas’ side of the table to repeat the action. She set the glass a little more heavily than needed on the stone table, and when Solas turned to look she pointed discreetly to the dark fluid and shook her head. He seemed to understand, and left his fresh drink untouched.

The servus vinum quickly moved on, and she took up her wine again to inhale deeply on the rim. Only the fruity fumes of the Blessed 8:12 met her nose. She beckoned Solas to slide his goblet closer so she could repeat the test, a small frisson of relief travelling through her when she found the same. It was doubtful there was anything an assassin could do to actually harm an Evanuris, but it was still reassuring that his life wasn’t being actively hunted at that moment.

Of course, him not being a _target_ raised other questions.

As the slave moved out of earshot, she hosted a quick internal debate. Telling Solas all risked playing into his plans if he was indeed behind the poisoning. The thought of inadvertently giving him information that helped his cause gave her the same sharp pang she felt the instant she loosed an arrow on a bad flight. But what could she do? Without allies, you depended on the reliability of your enemies.

Solas was giving her an odd look. She already knew what he wanted to ask.

“Drink your wine cautiously,” she said at last in an undertone. “There’s an assassin working here tonight. A Viddathari spy, I think,” she added.

“What?” He sat upright at once and set his goblet on the table. “How do you know this?” he asked immediately.

“I came across a magister who’d been poisoned with _galasanwa’sae._ The inside of his brandy glass was coated with it.” She held up the bag on her wrist. “How he didn’t smell something amiss, I have no idea, but he rests upstairs now.”

“The oil of the snakeroot plant?” A finger tapped his knee. “I see. Not altogether surprising.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Not surprising? I can think of a dozen poisons offhand that would be better suited to a public assassination. You need special tools to grind it, large amounts of blood lotus seeds to keep it potent past an hour and even then it degrades into a harmless paste within two. We only used it for our arrows because it killed so quickly and kept the animal edible afterwards.”

“You used it when you hunted for your clan, I suppose?” he asked.

“Yes. Back when I was less alone,” she said evenly. She answered his pointed glance with a smile. “If it is the Qun, it’s a very peculiar choice of weapon,” she continued, rolling the snifter around in its velvet prison.

He tilted his head. “I think you know why the Qunari would take those pains, if it meant a Tevinter noble died tonight at the apparent hand of an elf.”

She pulled the snifter free to place it carefully on the table, and gestured to it. “Of course,” she sighed. “They want to discredit one of us.”

“Or both,” Solas answered, picking up the rounded glass and examining the oily veil that still clung to the inside. “You could never argue that the Qun operates inefficiently.”

She worried the inside of her cheek with her teeth. She knew the question she had to ask, but it meant walking into a labyrinth of unknowns. How she missed the trio of Josephine, Cullen and Leliana in her ear in moments like these; three diverse opinions that always came together inside her head as a resolved and obvious course of action. But now she had no choice but to grope tentatively along her path and hope she didn’t wake an ogre.

“Was it you?” she asked plainly. There was no use dressing it up.

He looked at her. “Framing you to take the blame, you mean?”

She nodded.

Sadness melted down his face for a moment, before it quickly froze back over into the same cool dispassion he’d worn all night. “No, Inquisitor. I would not give that order.”

“And… your followers?” she persisted reluctantly.

“Would not risk it. Even if they wanted to disobey very specific orders about spreading chaos or… interfering with you, they could not do so without my knowing.” He shook his head as he replaced the glass on the table. “No, this is the Qun, I’m almost certain.”

She was silent as she kneaded scenarios like potter’s clay until one took form. She stood up, decision made. “Would you -”

“Ser! Ser, Master Solas - ah, Inquisitor!”

A loud voice broke the genteel hum of the triclinium, harsh Denerim accent sticking out like a scruffy rooster set among a flock of peacocks.

“Naddie?” she exclaimed in confusion, turning in time to see the girl barrelling her way towards them from a servant’s entrance. “What are you -”

“Lady Inquisitor, Serrah, I ‘umbly beg your pardons but you’re needed at once,” she said in a breathless rush. “Only I’ve just run from the kitchens and old Sallue is there trying to hold ‘im down, she’s not got the strength -”

“Explain what you mean,” Solas cut across her ramble as he stood to join them.

Naddie’s hands gesticulated wildly, bandaged arm peeking from under the uniform sleeve of a kitchen dogsbody. “Henanil the table runner, Sallue’s got him wedged in the larder, and I saw -”

“Alright, enough,” Solas said quickly. “Not here.” He put a guiding hand on Naddie’s arm, leading her back towards the servant entrance. As she trailed the pair, she heard the upswing of hushed murmuring as they suddenly became the centre of the triclinium’s attention.

Once all three were safely in the dim stone passage behind the servant’s door, they both turned to Naddie expectantly.

The girl took a deep breath. “I saw Henanil putting some odd muck under one of them little plates of arrol - arroto - them bits of meat sliced like a book page, so I took some to Sallue who told me to bring him to the cold larder, and all a sudden she shoves ‘im in, pulls it shut and yells at me to run for Master Solas, so you must come quick ‘cos she’s getting on and I don’t think she could hold that door for long.” The elf’s words were tumbling over each other in their haste to get out.

She shared a look with Solas. “Take us to the larders, Naddie,” she said with a nod. “Did the odd stuff have a strong smell?” she asked as they began a brisk pace through the cramped, mildewy tunnel.

Naddie wrinkled her nose. “Aye, it were horrid. Never smelt nuffink like that before. It was worse than sticking your head in the flower seller’s cart when he came round the alienage gate.” She looked at the Inquisitor. “Begging yer pardon but it’s something bad, isn’t it mi’lady?” the girl asked nervously as they passed a long room filled with oak barrels, then another with rows of fat white sausages strung from the ceiling.

“Well, all I know for sure is that that smell comes from something that should never be near a kitchen,” she answered. Infrequent torches lit the passage, and by them she read the dark look that had drawn over Solas’ face. They were silent as they continued deeper, walking down a gentle incline as the path led into a maze of cool stone.

Finally, they rounded a corner that caused Naddie’s steps to quicken. “Just here!” she called as she scurried ahead. The Inquisitor peered down the echoing corridor and saw the same aging woman who had treated Naddie’s wounds the night before. Hair floated in wispy, wild bits around an expression of gritty determination as she braced a flour bin up against a door. The door was banging outwards every few seconds with a dull thud, followed by muffled shouting. When she saw them coming, she crowed with relief.

“Oh, praise the Mother you’ve come, Fen’Harel. This boy is stronger than he looks!”

“You’ve done alright, old mum,” Naddie chirped as they drew near, inexplicably cheerful all of a sudden.

“Enough out of you, silly girl!” Sallue grizzled as she released her death grip on the rim of the barrel, massaging her wrists. “Stand aside and let Fen’Harel pass!”

The banging on the door had stopped. Solas rolled the barrel aside and put a hand on the door latch, pausing for a moment to look at the Inquisitor. She gave him a nod.

He pulled the door open to reveal a tiny room lit only by a taper wedged between two stones in the wall. Stacked cheese wheels and racks of vegetables in shallow wooden bins lined the perimeter. In the middle of the space stood a figure whose face was hidden by the sharp shadows.

“ _Garaat ari-etaam._ ” Solas spoke accusingly, the usual lilt in his voice tripping on the guttural sounds.

The figure moved. Candlelight glowed on the red hair of a young elf, no more than twenty. His hands slowly curled into fists as he stared Solas down.

_“Garaat ari-etaam!_ ” Solas repeated, eyes boring holes through the other elf, who responded only with a defiant rise of his chin.

Sallue edged her way into the room, unfolding a small cloth. “I found him with this, Dread Wolf.” The ghastly and unmistakable stench of the _galasanwa’sae_ filled the small space. “I knew what he was about as soon as Naddie told me what she’d seen.”

“Thank you, Sallue. You did well.” Solas answered without taking his eyes off the temporary prisoner.

A corner of the redhead’s mouth quirked.

Solas stepped forward. “Speak, or be forced. Who sent you?”

“I am but a humble slave, serrah.” He shrugged modestly, then smiled again like a cat with a belly full of pet finches.

The Inquisitor caught Solas’ arm just as it began to rise, the feel of agitated magical energy already making gooseflesh prickle down her back.

“A far worse fate awaits you if you’re discovered by the Tevinters who own this estate,” she interjected, keeping her voice reasonable and moderate. “Tell us who you are and who sent you, and your life may be spared.”

The boy turned to her with undisguised contempt. “I know what fate awaits me, _imesaar-bas._ ” He reached into his pocket. “ _Anaan esaam Qun!_ ”

Suddenly, a light brighter than two noonday suns flooded the room and there was a cracking noise as loud as a tree shedding a branch. She heard Naddie squeal somewhere behind her, and a wooden box splintered as Solas stumbled and fell. A strong shove sent her into a rack, sending a shower of dried peas cascading down her shoulder as she clapped a hand over her eyes. Dimly, she heard the sound of the door closing and running footsteps. Behind her eyelids was only burning white nothingness.

She could hear the tiny crackles and pops of rapidly drying wood under the sound of Sallue and Naddie’s confused cries.

“Solas,” she mumbled. An acrid curl of smoke floated past her nose. “ _Solas!_ ” she shouted.

“I was blinded,” he groaned from somewhere on the floor.

“We all were,” she answered as she groped forward with one hand extended. Cool air brushed her ankle and she followed its direction, hand finding a baize surface. She roughly pushed aside what felt like a doubled over Sallue and flung open the door. “Put out the fire and see to these two! I’m going after him.”

“Inquisitor, wait!” she heard him call. But the sound of feet pounding stone was already disappearing down the corridor, swallowed up by the crackle of flames. She broke into a run, depending on nothing but her ears and her memory. _Uphill,_ she reassured herself. _He can’t escape while he’s underground_. Phantom circles of green and purple had begun appearing on the white desert behind her eyelids, expanding over and over in a drifting repetition.

There was a surprised shout from somewhere up ahead, and the clatter of dropped pans. She turned towards the noise, chest heaving as she sprinted. Her eyes were streaming water, but now the lights of the torches had become distinguishable against the dancing kaleidoscope of shapes and patterns. A gasp of relief broke free when she realised whatever he’d done to their eyes wasn’t permanent.

She burst into a hot, well-lit room and came to a standstill. Squinting hard, she could just make out several figures standing by coal ranges. There was a scrabbling noise, and she swung her head towards it. Another blurry blob was throwing open a window.

“Henanil!” she shouted. The blob paused only for a second before putting a foot on the frame. She vaulted a table she could barely see and lunged after him, sending a bushel of onions rolling to the floor. A chorus of gasps and shrieks erupted as her desperate fingertips brushed his back, then the air was rushing past her ears. As they began to plunge, she realised why the cooks had sounded so horrified; this was not a ground floor window as she’d assumed.   

The earth came up to greet them very quickly. They crashed into what felt and sounded like a shrub, Henanil letting out a heavy grunt as her shoulder drove into his stomach. Ripples of pain radiated from the side that had taken her weight, joints jarred in their sockets, but she was by no means incapacitated. Neither was the Viddathari, and he scrambled to free himself from the entangling branches.

Now only half-blind, she snagged a handful of his shirt just as he broke free.  They scuffled for a few tense moments during which she waited for a knife she couldn’t see to appear in her ribs, but it seemed the Qunari spy had played his last card.

“How did you catch up so fast?” Henanil burst out breathlessly.

She huffed a laugh between gasps of air. “You’ve clearly never forgotten to close a halla pen at night, _da’len_.”  

She punctuated the statement by jabbing a few key nerve bundles in his shoulders before turning the boy on his front, pulling his flailing wrists together over his back and putting a decisive knee on top. He swore in Qunlat a few times before his struggles slowed, then ceased.

“That’s better,” she panted, patting his head like he was a fretting mount. He answered only with a baleful, furious glare.

As the fuzzy film over her vision slowly dissolved, she realised they’d landed in a secluded corner of the terraced garden she’d seen beyond the wide doors of the ballroom. They were sheltered from the eyes of the party-goers drifting outside the ballroom by a small dividing wall covered in climbing ivy. A shiver tickled her skull; a little more momentum in her jump and both of them would have had stones and mortar instead of leaves and twigs as a landing pad.

“What’s this? Are the slaves at it again?”

She looked up to find the speaker of the apathetic question, hoping fervently Henanil didn’t have accomplices. A young human man with a blank expression rounded the edge of the wall, a careless slant in his posture and one hand raising a golden goblet to his lips. A signet ring bulging with a sapphire glinted from his smallest finger.

“So what is it this time? Lover’s tiff? Or were you fighting over who gets to chew on the ham bones after the party?” The man sniggered into his drink as he took a few languid steps towards them, his expensive frock coat flapping around his knees. She cursed her luck when she recognised him as the mage Solas had been doing his best to ignore in the ballroom.

His self-congratulation was cut short as he drew closer and saw her clothes. “Oh, you’ve had fun tonight,” he said with a slow grin. “Does your mistress know you stole her gown, you little scamp?” He gave her a drunken tap on the nose with his free hand. “My father doesn’t like thieves, you know,” he singsonged, maliciousness barely disguised under a layer of sickly sweet patronising.

Her teeth ground together. This was not an ideal time to encounter wine-soaked idiots. “I am not a slave, ser,” she replied in her best ‘war-table voice’ as she irritably knocked away his hand. “I am Inquisitor Lavellan, here at Magister Victrinus’ invitation.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured as he bent closer with a smile that came nowhere near his eyes. “No, I don’t think so. You see, my father would never invite a scampering rattus to a Senate ball. Got anything else to try?”

Henanil twisted slightly underneath her, testing how distracted she was. She answered by leveraging her whole weight onto her knee and he bleated in pain. She looked up squarely into the eye of the revolting human, her last strand of patience snapping.

“Whether or not you believe I am the Inquisitor, I don’t much care. But call me, or any other elf here a rattus again, and I’ll show you just how merciful I’m being to this boy.”

Something shifted in the man’s face; a violent anger shattering the sarcastic and goading mask. “You dare to -” He drew back and raised the hand with the ring, wine sloshing everywhere. “You _dare_ speak to me in that way, you dirty deer fu -”

“Tertius!” a sharp voice called from her right. “That’s enough.”

Three tall figures stood arrayed at the other end of the little garden corridor, one slightly behind the others. Her hazy vision picked out Solas’ green doublet at once, his chest still heaving. As they drew nearer, she could tell they had caught at least the tail end of their conversation. His eyes were colder than an Emprise morning.

“Father! Master Solas!” the oblivious dandy cried jovially. He spread his arms wide, stumbling towards them. “You just won’t guess what this slave is saying -”

“That _is_ Inquisitor Lavellan,” Magister Victrinus ground out, his jaw clenched. “You stupid, _stupid_ boy.”

All the mirth died in Tertius’ eyes. His arms slowly lowered back to his sides.

“I believe I can also vouch for her identity,” said another, unnaturally rough voice. The third man stepped between the Magister and the elf, pushing his blue cape over a shoulder.

“You!” The Inquisitor exclaimed, rather more loudly than she’d meant to.

The grey-haired gentleman chuckled hoarsely. Then he turned to Victrinus.

“Perhaps it’s time Tertius left the party, Secundus,” he suggested mildly, but with a very pointed raise of his eyebrows.

“Of course, your Grace,” Victrinus mumbled, before stepping forward to take his son roughly by his upper arm. “Come, Tertius,” he hissed blackly.

Blue-cloak stopped him before they passed beyond the garden wall. “We will speak of this later, Magister.”

“Yes, Archon,” the Magister answered with a stiff bow, before disappearing in a swathe of flapping black robes, his son’s frippery an almost comical contrast as he dragged the silent, staggering young man away.

“Archon!” she repeated, feeling a bit like a Rivaini parrot.

He gave her a warm smile and extended a hand. “We weren’t exactly introduced, were we? Orentius Gavani, Archon of Tevinter.”

At this, Henanil put up his biggest struggle yet, thrashing violently under her leg. Solas stepped forward and somewhere between heartbeats the Viddathari went still, his flesh losing all its give as if he’d been carved from wood.

The Archon knelt down to touch the boy’s face, now frozen in a grimace. He looked back over his shoulder at Solas with a question in his eyes.

“He will live,” Solas said curtly. “But his fate rests with you, your Grace. The elf is a Qunari spy. The Inquisitor and I discovered him attempting to slip an elven magebane into the food and drink.”

She released her weight from Henanil’s back, standing to brush off her skirts before extending a hand to the Archon. “A magebane with which you might consider yourself overly familiar,” she added.

The Archon stood to clasp hands with her. “More than I’ll ever wish to be familiar with an Antivan brandy again,” he said throatily with a hint of amusement.

“Are you alright?” she asked, peering into his eyes for any cloudiness. His skin colour seemed healthy enough, though she wasn’t sure what effects he’d suffer given his short exposure time. “You should probably be resting.”

“I’m afraid rest is for lucky souls who don’t guard a viper’s pit, Lady Lavellan.” Despite the good humoured tone, there was a weariness in the lines of his face that suggested there was more truth than lie in the joke.

“I apologise for not staying by your side, your Grace,” she said regretfully as their hands released. “I didn’t want to leave you in that state, but -”

Orentius waved a hand, dismissing her concerns. “Say nothing of it. And you made quite the impression on my valet. He fetched my personal healer in record time.” He gave her an earnest, piercing look. “Your friend is whole and safe, I trust?”

“Magister Pavus? Yes, quite well, though a little too drunk for his own good.” She found herself returning his smile unconsciously. It was immediately obvious that this was a man who could appear trustworthy no matter what his agenda, and she didn’t wonder for a moment how he had risen to Archon. _In a den of liars, the honest man is king_.

“May I ask how you are acquainted with the Inquisitor, your Grace?” Solas interrupted before she could prod further about his condition.

Orentius placed a hand on his belt loop and chuckled again, the timbre as rich as Starkhaven wool despite the scratchiness. “This woman saved my life tonight.”

“She did?” Solas queried, a curious look coming over him.

“Are you surprised to hear it?” the Archon countered casually.

Solas gave the Tevinter an even gaze. “Anyone who knows the Inquisitor knows she is selfless, perhaps even to a fault.”

The Archon smiled.

“It was his Grace I found in distress after swallowing some of the Crone’s Bite, though I didn’t know who he was at the time,” she explained hastily. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt the need to clarify her actions. “It was pure luck that the herbs I needed were nearby.”

Orentius shook his head. “ I’m afraid you won’t escape the burden of having saved the life of Tevinter’s Archon so easily, Lavellan. You may have to endure some measure of my gratitude.” He gave her another eye-creasing smile. “But for now, we tend to this.” He nudged the petrified Henanil with the toe of a boot.

“This attempt on your life should be all the proof required that the Qun are mustering their strength to strike against you, Archon,” Solas said with a decisive tilt of his chin, hands folding behind his back. “This is no doubt the first of many sleeper agents they have activated, and I can assure you, they are merely the prelude to the coming storm.”

Orentius was silent, a small quirk of his eyebrows his only reaction. He looked down at Henanil’s rigid body for a long moment, then up to the night sky. The Inquisitor saw something familiar in the fatigued expression; the battle between impossible choices that waged constantly within any leader of men who tried to retain a conscience was a very tiring one.

“I thank you for the warning,” he said at last, eyes still cast upwards. Then, he turned to Solas with a full, if strained smile, and extended a hand to shake. Solas took it somewhat slowly. “Would you let the Inquisitor and myself speak alone for a moment? _Indulgentia, honoratus dominus.”_

Solas’ eyes touched hers for a split second before returning to the Archon.

“Of course.” The calculating, shuttered expression had reappeared.

“ _Gratias tibi ago_.” Orentius turned back to her and extended an arm. “If you would?” he asked, tilting his head back towards the party with the same weary smile.

After quickly and vigorously brushing the last of the leaves off her skirts, she took it. They left Solas standing over the Viddathari’s lifeless form. She hoped the ominous feeling the sight produced was not premonition.

For a minute, they simply strolled in silence, picking their way down the perfectly manicured garden paths through fragrant blooming plants. She was hesitant to venture anything resembling a counterargument to what Solas had said. After all, he wasn’t exactly wrong. There was no doubt that after the events of the Exalted Council, the Qunari disavowals of their ‘rogue’ elements were beginning to ring a lot less true. But the Qunari didn’t plan to rend the Veil and therefore facilitate the greatest coincidental loss of life in known memory, so there was that.

“Pavus… Dorian Pavus of the Lucerni group, is that right?” the Archon eventually said. “His father was a Magister for many years.” He sounded thoughtful, as if they were picking up conversation thread they’d left off earlier.

“Yes, that’s him,” she answered, quietly impressed at the man’s memory.

Orentius nodded, pursing his lips. “Interesting ideas, that young man. We will see what he makes of them.”

“I believe Magister Victrinus called those ideas ‘rabble-rousing’,” she said carefully, tucking her chin to her chest.

The Archon chortled. “That sounds about right. But time will shake the chaff from the wheat.” A melancholic air came over him then, as if he’d picked it up off a passing breeze. “Secundus does love Tevinter, that much is undeniable,” he said.   

“As does Dorian. I will vouch for that,” she said firmly.

He looked at her with another gentle quirk of the lips. “Oh, I know. But is love for your country a virtue in a Magister?” He let his head fall side to side in a demurring motion. “We invariably find ourselves doing strange and extreme things for the sake of that which we love, I think.”

She opened her mouth with a rebuttal, then closed it.

“Your crusade with Pavus against the Fen’Harel elves is a personal one, no? Master Solas is a former companion of yours?” he continued as they began wending their way through a rigidly clipped rose bed. When she looked at him, he gave a disarming shrug. “I have taken a close interest in the Inquisition’s efforts these past years. Corypheus wished to rally Tevinter under his banner and he could not be allowed to make the attempt. I kept an eye on your group’s struggle to ensure I was a step ahead of him should you fail. Of course, that was a wasted concern.” He made a neat little bow from the waist.

“It seems you’re well informed, Archon,” she conceded.

“Ah, but not as well as I’d like to be, _heroica domina._ ” Something shifted slightly in his look. A little less softness around the eyes. “Why Minrathous? Why are you really here?”

She met his gaze squarely. “To prevent Tevinter from pointing its efforts in the wrong direction. It is not the Qun who will take the rest of the Empire from you. Solas is the one who must be stopped.”

“And to stop him, you must have my Militis?” he asked mildly.

She shook her head in frustration. “Gaining your armies is less important to me than ensuring they don’t fall into Solas’ hands. I must try to prevent you from helping him.”

The Archon lifted his hands in gentle resignation. “Master Solas has been nothing but a blessing to Tevinter thus far. He comes with no army to break down the walls. He doesn’t ask for reform of our Chantry. You tell me very little of what he plans to do that is so very cataclysmic, _domina._ ”

She prevented herself from rolling her eyes only with great effort. _They’ve all swallowed this ‘friend and saviour’ tripe so easily._

“It doesn’t worry you at all that he asks for nothing in return?” she shot back sharply. “Assuming that he would lay out all his plans on the Senate floor is just wilful ignorance.” _That you will bitterly regret._

Orentius ran a thumb and forefinger down over the grey stubble peppering his chin.

“There is no action without motivation, of course. But I would protect Tevinter with any tool I was handed, as you protected your Inquisition. I would be a fool to ignore his warnings.”

She was immediately contrite at his calm response to her flare of temper. Letting her frustration take control was the last thing she could afford.

“I know, I… know,” she said apologetically. “Believe me, there is no one more aware of how little I can tell you than myself.” She held up her hands in appeasement. “Please, let me tell you what I’ve learned.”

The Archon inclined his head. “Of course, Lady Inquisitor.”

She pushed her tongue into her teeth, marshalling her thoughts. “From scant intelligence I’ve had on his movements, I can glean that Solas is chasing down old - ancient, I should say - elven reliquaries in every forgotten corner of the continent. The lone disadvantage he’s contending with on this quest is that his numbers remain relatively small. He can’t scatter them all to search independently; they’d fall to prehistoric booby traps, bandits, or - forgive my bluntness - Tevinter slavers.”

The Archon nodded regretfully, acknowledging the point.

“But give him the reins to the Militis under the mandate of defense of your lands against the Qun, and suddenly his numbers increase a hundredfold. Under whatever pretense he likes, your soldiers will be his hands, eyes and ears all over the northern continent. It would be only a question of time before he found whatever he’s searching for, and then he plans to... bring about a return the glorious age of Elvhenan.”

“How, precisely?” Orentius prodded when she paused.

She winced. “He wishes to remove the Veil. Solas is - or was, or will be - a figure of godlike power to the ancient elves. Until recently, he slept in _uthenera_.” She paused. “A stasis sleep used by the immortals  -” she began to explain.

The Archon waved at her to continue. “I know what it is,” he interrupted, tone subdued.

She nodded. “Then you probably also know that the most powerful of your magisters would be quite an ordinary Elvhen, and he wasn’t simply a citizen of Arlathan. Solas didn’t just take on the name of an elven god for its pithiness. He _is_ Fen’Harel.”

The Archon narrowed his eyes doubtfully, shaking his head in consternation. “Assuming the _uthenera_ sleep could persist for so long, and assuming he could ever summon enough power for such a feat, why? What would destroying the Veil accomplish?”

She smiled helplessly. “Why indeed? There is no question to which I want an answer more. I don’t know exactly how the world would change without a barrier between here and the Fade, but I _have_ had intimate experience with spirits sucked out into reality against their will. Every innocent wisp transforms instantly, irreversibly into a demon with no conscience or restraint. And thus follows chaos, destruction, battle, and invariably death.”

Orentius gave her a searching look. “He knows this also. Can it be sure this is what he intends?”

“I don’t know that he intends it,” she answered carefully. “But he will do nothing to prevent it, for the sake of his grander scheme.”

They fell silent after her pronouncement. Orentius looked distant again, lost in a deep thought somewhere. Their steps rounded the edge of the stairs leading back to the ballroom doors, and they began to climb.

“Thank you for your counsel, Inquisitor,” he said when they were about halfway up, gaze somewhere out in the middle distance.

She bit her bottom lip anxiously. “I know I’ve given you painfully little to go on. And I keenly understand your reluctance to move your military without hard facts. But you _must_ -”

“It is not I who decides. Only the Magisterium votes on the mobilisation of the Militis,” he interrupted with a firmness tempered by a soft smile. “It is they who must be convinced.”

“Yes, but... ” she trailed off weakly. How could she complain about the bias and close-mindedness of Tevinter’s most sacred institution to the face of its ruler? _Where are you with your delicate touch, Josephine?_

“Ah, and we’ve arrived back at the party,” Orentius murmured as they mounted the last step. A handful of people were milling on the wide terrace, sipping their vinum or smoking from long, narrow pipes. All eyes swivelled when they saw who her companion was.

The Archon took her arm and placed it securely in his own. They walked the last few steps to the large terrace doors as a promenading couple.

“This is where I must leave you, Lady Inquisitor. But it has been an honour and a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said with a little more volume than necessary. “I will take your advice under the most careful consideration.” With a gallant motion, he swept back his cape to bow, before taking her hand and pressing a kiss to its back.

She looked around at their gobsmacked onlookers, cottoning on. “Thank you,” she whispered as his head rose again.

“I told you you would have to accept my gratitude,” he murmured in a smiling undertone.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a flash of green and gold. Solas was leaning against the inside of the glass doors, arms crossed and watching them. His head was angled slightly towards someone speaking to him from the side hidden from her view. He nodded once, and the other figure departed.

The Archon followed her gaze, paused for a moment, then laughed gaily. “He beat us back here? It appears Master Solas _is_ quite the talented mage, however carefully he tries to hide it.”

“More than you could possibly know,” the Inquisitor replied dully, watching the distorted Solas unfold his arms. “He is, without a doubt, the most dangerous man to ever pass through your city.”

The Archon simply smiled again, though now the dark eyes were wistful rather than merry. “I must go and have words with Secundus about a dungeon for the Viddathari. _Bona fortuna_ , Inquisitor Lavellan. I bid you goodnight.” He made a beckoning motion with one finger towards the corner of the house.

A pair of guardsmen dressed in the Archon’s livery appeared seemingly out of the ether. With a final nod to her, all three disappeared back into the house and were gone, leaving her with nothing but Solas’ inscrutable gaze for company.

She pushed open the door and stepped into the ballroom antechamber. The chatter of the room’s occupants was underscored by the distant strains of an Orlesian _danse_ _composé._ Solas unpropped himself from the wall.

“You seem well acquainted with the Archon, Inquisitor.” There was a lightness and sociability in the question that was completely undermined by the stillness of his eyes and mouth.

“We’ve only met today. But he seems a very decent, reasonable man. I believe he wishes only to protect Tevinter, body and soul.” She picked an errant leaf off her sleeve.

“And - in your opinion - how should he perform that duty, with the Qunari mustering the largest invasion force the mainland has ever seen?” he asked, eyebrows raising in false innocence as he offered an arm. She pursed her lips and took it.

“Whatever he does, he can do it without your help, Solas,” she answered shortly.

“Can he?”

She clicked her tongue irritably, her mounting frustrations coming to a head. “Look, let’s do away with the facades and politicking. What are you really about?” She pulled out of his arm and turned to face him. “For my own part, tonight has proven that the Qun are a threat we must conquer, and soon. You already know this. So why aren’t we in Tevinter for the same reason?”

He didn’t reply, instead walking over to stand on the very edge of the ballroom’s precipice, folding his arms again and watching the hundreds of shifting bodies in silence.

She joined him, looking at the side of his face.

“You were right, earlier,” she offered frankly. “There’s no one left for me to call on anymore. I’ve no army, no spies, no diplomats, and only one hand. But I would pledge my pitiful service to you in a heartbeat, if I knew you wanted to improve the lives of our people. That is a truly noble cause.”

She took a deep breath.

“But... if you persist in this duty of yours and insist that innocents pay the price, then I will work without rest to protect those lives from you. However I had to.” Her true meaning hung unspoken and heavily in the air between them.

Aside from a deepening in the furrow between his eyebrows, he didn’t answer. They stood for a minute or two more, hidden by the dim shadows and watching the colourful tableau.

Eventually she sighed, giving up on any further hope of conversation. There was very little left to say between them, and the silence was becoming oppressive.

“Goodnight, Solas,” she bid him quietly, and walked away. It occurred to her that that it might be the last time they ever spoke, and she tried to squash the painfully miserable thought. Instead, she attempted to visualise sinking her head into one of Dorian’s feather pillows and drawing a line under the whole regretful day.

“Would you dance with me?” he called out loudly before she'd gotten ten paces.

When she looked back over her shoulder, frozen to the spot with surprise, he’d turned to face her. His expression was dismal, almost tormented. The last strains of a song were fading as the dancers came to a halt, some clapping genteelly towards the orchestra. The musicians began changing out the sheets on their stands.

His arms unfolded as he came towards her. “I am well aware it would be absurd,” he said, something awkward in his voice. “But I would be greatly honoured if you would - if you could consider -”

“Alright.”

He paused. “Alright?”

“Yes, I'll dance with you.”

His eyebrows lowered, hovering between suspicion and disbelief.

She gave him a wry smile even as her heart threatened to drum its way right out of her chest. “Would you like a third answer, just so you’re sure?”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. It’s just -” He exhaled shortly. “Pardon me, I’m just surprised. ” He held up a hand and shook his head at the floor, collecting himself.

“Won’t it hurt your cause?” he said more coherently as he looked back up. “They’ll think you can be persuaded.”

She _hmmed_ in partial agreement. “Perhaps. But perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad to be thought of as anything other than the unreasonable, one-note fanatic from the south. I’m accepting a dance at a ball, not signing an accord with you in blood. It’s not too bizarre a thing to do.” She offered him her hand. “Shall we go? They’re setting the next dance already.”

He took it slowly. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

It _was_ mad, if she was being honest. It certainly could hurt her case when she stood in front of the same people tomorrow and tried to convince them that the man planning to kill them all was the same man they’d watched her dancing with the evening before. But she doubted there was much more she could do to damage her own standing in the Magisterium. Perhaps she could optimistically hope one or two would see her as less of a lunatic and more as a proper political creature, trying to gain her enemy’s favour.

But she knew any rationalisation was a window dressing on the truth. She just wanted to dance with him.

They walked out to a clear space on the parquet, he presenting her hand. Eyes rolled like marbles to follow them, pointing gestures made discreetly behind gloved hands and a shurshurring of whispers springing up in their wake. She didn’t mind. She felt like she was stepping into the river of a dream.

“Lords and ladies, the next set will be 'The Vyrantium Minuet',” cried a white-gloved, bespectacled master of ceremonies from the other end of the room.

The Vyrantium Minuet - a relatively modern waltz, and rarely danced outside Tevinter. Even Josephine had struggled, though naturally Leliana had known it like it had been her own choreography. She looked at her partner from over their joined hands.

“Do you know this one?” she asked skeptically.

A wave of nostalgia crashed over her like a tide when he turned to her with a smirk pulling on a corner of his mouth. It was the most carefree expression she'd seen on his face since the day he'd taken her vallaslin.

In lieu of answering her question, he simply closed his fingers over her wrist. She felt a pull and suddenly, he had maneuvered his hand onto her waist and they were standing chest to chest, nearly touching. She felt herself pass into the envelope of his body heat, and sucked in a breath.

There were twin red spots high on his cheeks, and she knew then that despite their adventures under the kitchens, the excellent wine was working its magic on more than just herself that evening. Frankly, she couldn't have felt more grateful to Secundus Victrinus or his generous cellars at that moment.

“You are not the only one who strenuously studied those dancing manuals Leliana supplied to the library before the ball at Halamshiral,” he said, eyebrows raising in a challenge.

“Is that so?” she said, matching his tone. A grin began spreading on her face that she was powerless to prevent. “But as the Inquisitor, I had the benefit of excellent tutors.” She turned her right hand downwards so he could clasp her palm. Her mechanical hand she placed on his shoulder. “I didn’t see you at my lessons.”

“I had another partner,” he replied with airy confidence. The opening chords of the music began to play.

“Who!” she exclaimed, mentally counting down the bars until the opening steps.

“Cole. Who else?” he said matter-of-factly. “He was never happy I made him remove the hat.”

She burst out laughing and almost made a fool of herself missing the opening cue. But Solas was as good as his boasts and moved smoothly into the first turning set of the waltz. She forced her addled brain to concentrate on positioning her feet, determined that she would not come across as the peasant southerner in at least this respect.

After a few rough moments they began to move in sync, finding each other’s rhythm quickly within the lively music. He stepped with the sure footing of a seasoned society gentleman, well used to steering damsels through their paces. Which, she supposed on reflection, he had probably been, or some distant Arlathan equivalent. What a far cry he was now from the modest, withdrawn scholar known to Skyhold. _And what a far cry likely still from whatever he had been to the ancient elves_ , she thought.

She inclined her head, conceding his skill, which was obviously far beyond the few swaying steps they had danced years ago at Halamshiral.

“I would say your abilities are surprising, but you are so often surprising that it hardly counts anymore,” she said as they began moving up the length of the hall with every turn, skillfully avoiding collision in the sea of pairs.

He laughed, sending a puff of warm air down her cheek and her traitorous head nearly lost track of the next steps. “I don’t believe that tally is anywhere near even when I think of how many times you have surprised me,” he replied.

“I would like to hope some of them were pleasant surprises, along with the usual mortal peril.”

He cast his eyes upwards as though deep in thought. “Exciting, life-threatening, disruptive of the world order… and yes, pleasant is also a word I would use.”

She laughed again, floating in the whirling eddies of the dance. She was a little drunk, Solas was firm and warm to the touch, and he was smiling down at her as the brilliance of the room’s hundreds of candles lit his eyes. She hadn’t been so unconditionally happy since she’d won the clansmeet archery contest when she was thirteen.

They danced in silence for a few phrases, simply enjoying the music and the ease with which they moved. Her constant perceptiveness would not let her entirely forget about her surroundings and the ocean of stares, but she still found herself struggling to care. What had felt unbearable only minutes ago was now almost welcomed. _Let them see how well they looked_ , she thought, _two elves deep in the heart of Tevinter culture_.

And it was becoming difficult to tear her eyes from the small, secret grin that kept appearing on Solas’ lips.

“They are all looking at us,” he murmured, bending his head a little closer. The heat of his breath brushed her ear. “Are you regretting your decision?”

“Not yet,” she mumbled.

“But you may?” he asked with an enquiring tilt of the head. Regret shadowed his eyes for a moment.

She decided to switch tack and be brave. It was a course of action that usually turned out well for her. Usually.

“You look very handsome tonight, Solas,” she stated plainly, meeting his gaze.

An eyebrow perked, and she could tell it wasn’t the answer he’d expected. “Thank you,” he said with amused graciousness. “I didn’t think my usual clothes would do if I was to attend a ball with my name on the invitation this time.”

“I believe I saw an old man keel over at the audacity of a well-dressed elf when you entered the hall,” she joked.

He chuckled, and then shook his head. “And yet my effort was in vain. I pale next to you, Inquisitor.” He paused as his smile fell away, and something in his tenacious willpower slipped, just for a moment. If she hadn’t know that face so well, she would never have caught it. “Do you know you are the loveliest woman in the room?” he murmured emphatically, far too low for any passing dancer to hear.

A hot, tight flush coiled around her stomach, racing up through her chest. The atmosphere had changed. Suddenly there was something riskier, more concentrated in the narrow space between them.

“I’ve not come out too bad after I got the ink off,” she returned flippantly, trying for levity. She removed her false hand from his shoulder for a moment to ruffle her skirts, feeling an alien kind of bashfulness.

The fledgling flirtation behind his eyes turned to iron. “Today, in the Senate. How did you bear it?” Every syllable was crisp and angry.

She raised her shoulders, and let them drop. “I must. That’s all.”

“I wanted to turn those disrespectful beasts into ash.” The indignation was subdued by despondent sincerity. “Please believe that I wished to.”

She found herself in the strange position of wanting to comfort the man who had been (if indirectly) responsible for her torment.

“I do believe you. But I won’t be frightened off by them. They will have to drag me out with horses if they want me to leave before I’ve said my piece.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly as they turned into their last rotation of the hall.

He laughed, but this time it was a sound of pure anguish. His eyes wandered out over the crowd.

“How can you still be so -” He cut himself off, his eyes finding hers again. “You’ve been shunted about indiscriminately by fate and yet you bear the weight of the world so easily, even when you’re given only suspicion and grief for your troubles. You are alone here, fighting against odds you can’t yet see in a place that despises you. And yet you comfort _me_ , the one who would -” He shook his head as he broke off and looked away, expression contorting as if he’d been struck.

Empathy flooded her at the sight of his distress. But he continued before she had a chance to speak and ease it.

“Why are you in Tevinter, Inquisitor?” he asked insistently, almost bitterly. “Why expose yourself to this place unnecessarily?”

“Now that is an odd question.” She hoped she sounded more nonchalant than she felt. “I’m here because there are things only I can do.”

“If I asked you to, is there any chance you would return to your clan and live in peace?” he asked abruptly, without much hope in his voice.

“You know the answer to that.”

He looked at her with a tortured mix of admiration and defeat. “I do,” he sighed.

She drew her fingertips a little ways along the soft cloth of his doublet. “I would endure a thousand such humiliations, if that what it takes.”

His brow contracted in slight confusion. “What it takes?”

“To save you.”

He looked at her in surprise. She gazed at him steadily. There had never been any doubt in her mind that Solas was a good man, and remained so. She knew all too well what it was to walk down a road that appeared to have many branching paths, but all wound back to the same place. You walked on or you laid down in despair, and that wasn’t a choice at all.

His eyes fell first. He gave another wretched laugh. “As always, I am in very great danger of believing anything you say.”

“Believe me,” she said immediately. Her life’s road had only one path too.

An unbearable misery washed down his expression. She wound a handful of his shirt into a fist, smothering the desire to gather him into her arms right there in the ballroom.

“I do not require saving,” he replied quietly.

“And yet, I will do it. I promise you,” she insisted earnestly, suddenly feeling an acute need that he understand her conviction. She knew she’d never sworn a more solemn oath in her life.

He shook his head with a confident resignation.

“Not this time, _ma’vhenan_.” The word seemed to roll off his tongue before he could catch it.

The music was drawing to a close. The hall was full of noise, but everything else in the world was suddenly over a far off hill. They slowly swung around once, twice more, and then the song was over. She stared at him as all their fellow dancers faced the orchestra to applaud.

He retreated out of their embrace, letting her hand lower back to her side but did not release it. His eyes hovered somewhere around her midsection. He looked like a hart who knew it had just wandered into the line of her arrow.

The momentary disbelief fell away and was replaced by a feeling she imagined could only be known by prisoners who’d walked out of gaol onto a sunny street.

“You are wrong, and not for the first time in your life, _vhenan,_ ” she answered hastily, even a little breathlessly. Her heart was in her throat. “Whatever happens, whatever paths you've forced yourself to walk, you are _ma’arlath_ ,” she declared. She watched his eyes jump back to hers, widening. “Always, Solas.”

He took one step forward, his expression cracking to reveal a profound, agonised longing underneath.

“And you are mine,” he replied urgently, and it was as though her heart had been pierced. “I've tried to forget but I've missed you, I've missed you every moment -”

“Master Solas! A word!” interrupted a loud call. From over his shoulder, she saw they were being approached by a gaggle of altus that looked determined to resume their accostment from earlier in the evening.

She sucked in a breath through her teeth.

“No!” she mumbled unconsciously. She seized his wrist reflexively, caring not a single whit for their appearance. “Please don’t go yet,” she begged in a undertone that sounded pathetic even to her own ears. If he left now, she was absolutely certain she’d burst into tears right there in the middle of the ballroom.

Solas let out a strangled groan. The Inquisitor saw the desperate eyes of a man being pulled apart by two teams of horses.

“My lord! We bring word from Legate Cassius of the Third Legion, we must speak with you at once -”  

Solas screwed his eyes shut, then stepped forward and gripped her upper arms almost violently. A strange tugging feeling diffused through her whole body and the embroidery on Solas’ doublet dissolved into wavy, inscrutable patterns, as if reality had just been flapped like a tablecloth covered in crumbs. For a half second, she was weightless. Then the waxed parquet disappeared, and they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imesaar-bas = Qunlat for 'one who consorts with demons'  
> harellan = elven for 'traitor'
> 
> Anyone reading this already knows what 'vhenan' and 'ma'arlath' mean :P
> 
> Special thanks to LolaShepard. Her sweet comments encouraged me to polish off this chapter and post it. The next one is already well on the way, and the older chapters will soon be updated with some fresh edits. Thank you, so very sincerely, to anyone who posted comments on the previous chapters. If I can give you some of the same joy reading this as I got from writing it, then there's not much else that can make me so happy. 
> 
> Keep an eye out for a new Reylo fic coming soon if you're into that sort of thing.


End file.
